Lucky Is The Man Who Does Not

Why Is It That One Can Look At A Lion Or A Planet Or An Owl Or At Someone's Finger As Long As One Pleases, But Looking Into The Eyes Of Another Person Is, If Prolonged Past A Second, A Perilous Affair?

For Some Time Now The Impression Has Been Growing Upon Me That Everyone Is Dead. It Happens When I Speak To People. In The Middle Of A Sentence It Will Come Over Me: Yes, Beyond A Doubt This Is Death. There Is Little To Do But Groan And Make An Excuse And Slip Away As Quickly As One Can.

Before, I Wandered As A Diversion. Now I Wander Seriously And Sit And Read As A Diversion.

Classes? Categories? Was That What We Had Come To?

I Had Discovered That A Person Does Not Have To Be This Or Be That Or Be Anything, Not Even Oneself. One Is Free.