It Was Odd, He Thought,

A Man Is Involved In Life, Leaves His Impress On It, And Outside Of That There Is Nothing.

Being Is. Being Is In-itself. Being Is What It Is.

I Construct My Memories With My Present. I Am Lost, Abandoned In The Present. I Try In Vain To Rejoin The Past: I Cannot Escape.

One Could Only Damage Oneself Through The Harm One Did To Others. One Could Never Get Directly At Oneself.

He Walked On In Silence, The Solitary Sound Of His Footsteps Echoing In His Head, As In A Deserted Street, At Dawn. His Solitude Was So Complete, Beneath A Lovely Sky As Mellow And Serene As A Good Conscience, Amid That Busy Throng, That He Was Amazed At His Own Existence; He Must Be Somebody Else's Nightmare, And Whoever It Was Would Certainly Awaken Soon.