There is always a certain peace in being what one is, in being that completely.
When I say "I," I mean a thing absolutely unique, not to be confused with any other.
Thought itself needs words. It runs on them like a long wire. And if it loses the habit of words, little by little it becomes shapeless, somber.
Every tiny part of us cries out against the idea of dying, and hopes to live forever.
At any given moment, I open my eyes and exist. And before that, during all eternity, what was there? Nothing.
If we have anything kind to say, any tender sentiment to express, we feel a sense of shame.