Tears and laughter, they are so much Gaelic to me.

The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.

Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.

Yes, there is no denying it, any longer, it is not you who are dead, but all the others. So you get up and go to your mother, who thinks she is alive. That's my impression. But now I shall have to get myself out of this ditch. How joyfully I would vanish here, sinking deeper and deeper under the rains.

But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.

The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.

Dying for dark — and the darker the Worse. Strange.