We Are Fashioned Creatures, But

All Men Hate The Wretched; How, Then, Must I Be Hated, Who Am Miserable Beyond All Living Things! Yet You, My Creator, Detest And Spurn Me, Thy Creature, To Whom Thou Are Bound By Ties Only Dissoluble By The Annihilation Of One Of Us.

My Own Mind Began To Grow, Watchful With Anxoius Thoughts.

I Beheld The Wretch-the Miserable Monster Whom I Had Created.

Solitude Becomes A Sort Of Tangible Enemy, The More Dangerous, Because It Dwells Within The Citadel Itself.

How Dreadful It Is, To Emerge From The Oblivion Of Slumber, And To Receive As A Good Morrow The Mute Wailing Of One's Own Hapless Heart - To Return From The Land Of Deceptive Dreams To The Heavy Knowledge Of Unchanged Disaster!