I Can't Feel A Thing;

Writing Is Utter Solitude, The Descent Into The Cold Abyss Of Oneself.

If What Was Supposed To Have Been Destroyed In Paradise Was Destructible, Then It Was Not Decisive; But If It Was Indestructible, Then We Are Living In A False Belief.

How Can One Take Delight In The World Unless One Flees To It For Refuge?

There Sat I, A Faded Being, Under Faded Leaves.

Some Deny The Existence Of Misery By Pointing To The Sun; He Denies The Existence Of The Sun By Pointing To Misery.