Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
We are all born; some remain so.
My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.
I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself.
Was I asleep? Had I slept?
But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.