Everything Around Me Is Evaporating. My Whole

To Think Is To Destroy.

Never Read A Book To The End, Nor Even In Sequence And Without Skipping.

Blessed Are Those Who Entrust Their Lives To No One.

And I, Who Timidly Hate Life, Fear Death With Fascination. I Fear This Nothingness That Could Be Something Else, And I Fear It As Nothing And As Something Else Simultaneously, As If Gross Horror And Non-existence Could Coincide There, As If My Coffin Could Entrap The Eternal Breathing Of A Bodily Soul, As If Immortality Could Be Tormented By Confinement. The Idea Of Hell, Which Only A Satanic Soul Could Have Invented Seems To Me To Have Derived From This Sort Of Confusion - A Mixture Of Two Different Fears That Contradict And Contaminate Each Other.

I Carry My Awareness Of Defeat Like A Banner Of Victory.