There is a down-and-outness under true knowledge and a childlike happy arising from it.
Slept, awoke, slept, awoke, miserable life.
It would have been so pointless to kill himself that, even if he had wanted to, the pointlessness would have made him unable.
What is written is merely the dregs of experience.
I have the true feeling of myself only when I am unbearably unhappy.
Was he an animal, that music could move him so? He felt as if the way to the unknown nourishment he longed for were coming to light.