Body Am I Entirely, And Nothing Else;

I Need Solitude, Which Is To Say, Recovery, Return To My Self, The Breath Of A Free, Light, Playful Air.

I Have Been Casting Shadows All My Life Without Caring About How Deeply They Stain My Soul.

What The Sense Feeleth, What The Spirit Discerneth, Hath Never Its End In Itself. But Sense And Spirit Would Fain Persuade Thee That They Are The End Of All Things: So Vain Are They.

A Subject For A Great Poet Would Be God's Boredom After The Seventh Day Of Creation.

Gradually It Has Become Clear To Me What Every Great Philosophy So Far Has Been: Namely, The Personal Confession Of Its Author And A Kind Of Involuntary And Unconscious Memoir.