The Chill Of What I Won't Feel

That Is My Morality Or My Metaphysics Or Me Myself: A Passer-by In Everything, Even My Own Soul. I Belong To Nothing, I Desire Nothing, I Am Nothing Except An Abstract Centre Of Impersonal Sensations, A Sentient Mirror Fallen From The Wall But Still Turned To Reflect The Diversity Of The World.

I Look At Myself But I'm Missing. I Know Myself: It’s Not Me.

Could It Think, The Heart Would Stop Beating.

The Human Soul Is An Abyss

Writing Is Like Paying Myself A Formal Visit.