Yes, Talking To People Makes Me Sleepy.

Should I Be What I Think? But I Think About Being So Many Things!

Pg.9 "in My Heart There's A Peaceful Anguish, And My Calm Is Made Of Resignation.

To Live Strikes Me As A Metaphysical Mistake Of Matter, A Dereliction Of Inaction.

If A Man Can Only Write Well When Drunk, I'll Tell Him: Get Drunk. And If He Tells Me That His Liver Suffers With It, I'll Answer: What's Your Liver? It's A Dead Thing That Lives As Long As You Live, And The Poems You'll Write Will Live Without A As Long As.

We Almost Always Live Outside Ourselves, And Life Itself Is A Continual Dispersion. But It's Towards Ourselves That We Tend, As Towards A Centre Around Which, Like Planets, We Trace Absurd And Distant Ellipses.