We, all who live, have A life that is lived And another life that is thought, And the only life we have It's the one that is divided In right or wrong.

Everything I sought in life I abandoned for the sake of the search. I'm like one who absentmindedly looks for he doesn't know what, having forgotten it in his dreaming as the search got under way.

I search and can't find myself. I belong in chrysanthemum time, sharp in calla lily elongations. God made my soul into an ornamental thing.

When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.

I'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.

Why is art beautiful? Because it's useless. Why is life ugly? Because it's all ends and purposes and intentions.

Everything interests me, but nothing holds me.