One reads in order to ask questions

A belief is like a guillotine, just as heavy, just as light.

I can't feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.

Being alone has a power over me that never fails. My interior dissolves (for the time being only superficially) and is ready to release what lies deeper. When I am willfully alone, a slight ordering of my interior begins to take place and I need nothing more.

I have spent my life resisting the desire to end it.

You, who can't do anything, think you can bring off something like that? How can you even dare to think about it? If you were capable of it, you certainly wouldn't be in need of it.

Life is merely terrible; I feel it as few others do. Often — and in my inmost self perhaps all the time — I doubt whether I am a human being.