Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.

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.

I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.

Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.

There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.

Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

Spend the years of learning squandering Courage for the years of wandering Through a world politely turning From the loutishness of learning.