It Is Noble To Be Shy, Illustrious

My Dreams Are A Stupid Refuge, Like An Umbrella Against A Thunderbolt.

My Past Is Everything I Failed To Be.

The Chill Of What I Won't Feel Gnaws At My Present Heart.

What Has Happened To Us Has Happened To Everyone Or Only To Us; If To Everyone, Then It's No Novelty, And If Only To Us, Then It Won't Be Understood.

Sadly I Write In My Quiet Room, Alone As I Have Always Been, Alone As I Will Always Be. And I Wonder If My Apparently Negligible Voice Might Not Embody The Essence Of Thousands Of Voices, The Longing For Self Expression Of Thousands Of Lives, The Patience Of Millions Of Souls Resigned Like My Own To Their Daily Lot, Their Useless Dreams, And Their Hopeless Hopes.