He Who Seeks Does Not Find, But

Writing Is Utter Solitude, The Descent Into The Cold Abyss Of Oneself.

You See, I Have Only Such A Fugitive Awareness Of Things Around Me That I Always Feel They Were Once Real And Are Now Fleeting Away.

It's Impossible To Defend Oneself In The Absence Of Goodwill

There Is A Goal But No Way; What We Call The Way Is Mere Wavering.

The Door Could Not Be Heard Slamming; They Had Probably Left It Open, As Is The Custom In Homes Where A Great Misfortune Has Occurred.