I Do Not Speak As I Think,

I Can Love Only What I Can Place So High Above Me That I Cannot Reach It.

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

But What If All The Tranquility, All The Comfort, All The Contentment Were Now To Come To A Horrifying End?

What If I Slept A Little More And Forgot About All This Nonsense.

For Words Are Magical Formulae. They Leave Finger Marks Be Hind On The Brain, Which In The Twinkling Of An Eye Become The Footprints Of History. One Ought To Watch One' S Every Word.