What can I expect from myself? My sensation in all their horrible acuity, and a profound awareness of feeling. A sharp mind that only destroys me, and an unusual capacity for dreaming to keep me entertained. A dead will and a reflection that cradles it, like a living child. From, The Book of Disquiet

We worship perfection because we can't have it; if we had it, we would reject it. Perfection is inhuman, because humanity is imperfect.

I look at myself but I'm missing. I know myself: it’s not me.

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

Multipliquei-me para me sentir.

My boredom with everything has numbed me.

I realize that, while often happy and often cheerful, I am always sad.