I Stop Wanting What I

Man, When He Does Not Grieve, Hardly Exists.

My Heaviness Comes From The Heights.

When The Superficial Wearies Me, It Wearies Me So Much That I Need An Abyss In Order To Rest.

He Who Makes A Paradise Of His Bread Makes A Hell Of His Hunger.

The Real "it Is Well" Is Something I Say From The Ground, Having Fallen.