To Know The World, One

In The Mental Disturbance And Effort Of Writing, What Sustains You Is The Certainty That On Every Page There Is Something Left Unsaid.

To Know The World, One Must Construct It

It Is Not The Actual Enjoyment Of Pleasure That We Desire. What We Want Is To Test The Futility Of That Pleasure, So As To Be No Longer Obsessed By It.

The Cadence Of Suffering Has Begun. Every Evening At Dusk, My Heart Constricts Until Night Has Come.

All Our "most Sacred Affections " Are Merely Prosaic Habit.