To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?

We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.

The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.

I still smile it's not worth the trouble any more for a long time now it's not been worth the trouble the tongue spring goes into the mud I stay like this not thirsty any more the tongue goes back into the mouth it closes it has to make a straight line now it's done I've made the image.

Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.

In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?

You would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless misery.