The Slope Takes You To The Windmill,

Ah, It's My Longing For Whom I Might Have Been That Distracts And Torments Me!

It Is Noble To Be Shy, Illustrious Not To Know How To Act, Great Not To Have A Gift For Living.

I Am Tired Of Myself In Every Way. All Things, Deep Down To The Secret Of Their Roots, Are Stained By The Color Of My Weariness.

I Realize That, While Often Happy And Often Cheerful, I Am Always Sad.

Literature Exists Because The World Isn't Enough.