In Its Early Stages, Insomnia Is Almost

Sincerity Is Not A Spontaneous Flower Nor Is Modesty Either.

One Keeps Forgetting Old Age Up To The Very Brink Of The Grave.

I Love My Past, I Love My Present. I Am Not Ashamed Of What I Have Had, And I Am Not Sad Because I No Longer Have It.

To Write Is To Pour One’s Innermost Self Passionately Upon The Tempting Paper, At Such Frantic Speed That Sometimes One’s Hand Struggles And Rebels, Overdriven By The Impatient God Which Guides It - And To Find, Next Day, In Place Of The Golden Bough That Bloomed Miraculously In That Dazzling Hour, A Withered Bramble And A Stunted Flower.

You Do Not Notice Changes In What Is Always Before You.