Ordinary Life Goes On--that Has Saved Many

With Your Great Schemes, You Ruin Our Happiness Like A Harvester Ruins A Mouse's Nest: I Hate You, God, I Hate You As Though You Existed.

To Comfort Me Is Like The Wrong Memory At The Wrong Place Or Time: If One Is Lonely One Prefers Discomfort.

One Forgets So Quickly One's Own Youth.

Writing Is A Form Of Therapy; Sometimes I Wonder How All Those Who Do Not Write, Compose Or Paint Can Manage To Escape The Madness, Melancholia, The Panic And Fear Which Is Inherent In A Human Situation.

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days.