Light black. From pole to pole.

I open the door of the cell and go. I am so bowed I only see my feet, if I open my eyes, and between my legs a little trail of black dust. I say to myself that the earth is extinguished, though I never saw it lit.

Poets are the sense, philosophers­­ the intelligence­­ of humanity.

What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come

Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.

I did not want to write, but I had to resign myself to it in the end.