Through the lack of attaching myself to words, my thoughts remain nebulous most of the time. They sketch vague, pleasant shapes and then are swallowed up; I forget them almost immediately.
Nothingness lies coiled in the heart of being - like a worm.
To read a poem in January is as lovely as to go for a walk in June
Little flashes of sun on the surface of a cold, dark sea.
It is meaningless that we are born, it is meaningless that we die.
it was odd, he thought, that a man could hate himself as though he were someone else.