I Think Of Life As An Inn

Life Is Full Of Paradoxes, As Roses Are Of Thorns.

What Can I Expect From Myself? My Sensation In All Their Horrible Acuity, And A Profound Awareness Of Feeling. A Sharp Mind That Only Destroys Me, And An Unusual Capacity For Dreaming To Keep Me Entertained. A Dead Will And A Reflection That Cradles It, Like A Living Child. From, The Book Of Disquiet

I've Reached The Point Where Tedium Is A Person, The Incarnate Fiction Of My Own Company.

My Soul Is Impatient With Itself, As With A Bothersome Child; Its Restlessness Keeps Growing And Is Forever The Same. Everything Interests Me, But Nothing Holds Me. I Attend To Everything, Dreaming All The While.

I Don't Know What I Feel Or What I Want To Feel. I Don't Know What To Think Or What I Am.