Life Begins On The Other Side Of

Is There Really Nothing, Nothing Left Of Me?

I Have Always Been An Optimist, Perhaps Even Too Much.

The Sun Is Not Ridiculous, Quite The Contrary. On Everything I Like, On The Rust Of The Construction Girders, On The Rotten Boards Of The Fence, A Miserly, Uncertain Light Falls, Like The Look You Give, After A Sleepless Night, On Decisions Made With Enthusiasm The Day Before, On Pages You Have Written In One Spurt Without Crossing Out A Word.

The For-itself, In Fact, Is Nothing But The Pure Nihilation Of The In-itself; It Is Like A Hole Of Being At The Heart Of Being.

The Characteristic Of Every Neurosis Is To Represent Itself As Natural.