I Take With Me The Conscience Of

I Feel As If I'm Always On The Verge Of Waking Up.

The Abstract Intelligence Produces A Fatigue That's The Worst Of All Fatigues. It Doesn't Weigh On Us Like Bodily Fatigue, Nor Disconcert Like The Fatigue Of Emotional Experience. It's The Weight Of Our Consciousness Of The World, A Shortness Of Breath In Our Soul.

I Don't Write In Portuguese. I Write Myself.

My Soul's The Present Shadow Of A Presence Gone.

But I Am Not Perfect In My Way Of Putting Things Because I Lack The Divine Simplicity Of Being Only What I Appear To Be.