Ah, it's my longing for whom I might have been that distracts and torments me!

I seek and don’t find myself. I belong to chrysanthemum hours, neatly lined up in flowerpots.

And I have the others in me. Even when I’m far away from them, I am forced to live with them. Even when I’m all alone, crowds surround me. I have no place to flee to, unless I were to flee from myself.

Everything interests me, but nothing holds me.

Life is full of paradoxes, as roses are of thorns.

There's a tiredness of abstract inteligence, and it's the most horrible of tirednesses. It doesn't weight on you like the tiredness of the body, nor does it worry you like the tiredness of knowledge and emotion. It's a weightiness of the conscience of the world, an inability of the soul to breathe.

The essence of what I desire is simply this: to sleep away life.