I am the outskirts of some non-existent town, the long-winded prologue to an unwritten book. I'm nobody, nobody. I don't know how to feel or think or love. I'm a character in a novel as yet unwritten, hovering in the air and undone before I've even existed, amongst the dreams of someone who never quite managed to breath life into me.

We are two abysses - a well staring at the sky.

But my sadness is comforting Because it’s right and natural And because it’s what the soul should feel When it already thinks it exists And the hand pick flowers And the soul takes no notice.

I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.

Literature exists because the world isn't enough.

There's a non-existent peace in the uncertain quietness

I've reached the point where tedium is a person, the incarnate fiction of my own company.