Humanitarianism Is Rude.

The Chill Of What I Won't Feel Gnaws At My Present Heart.

Could It Think, The Heart Would Stop Beating.

We May Know That The Work We Continue To Put Off Doing Will Be Bad. Worse, However, Is The Work We Never Do. A Work That’s Finished Is At Least Finished. It May Be Poor, But It Exists, Like The Miserable Plant In The Lone Flowerpot Of My Neighbour Who’s Crippled. That Plant Is Her Happiness, And Sometimes It’s Even Mine. What I Write, Bad As It Is, May Provide Some Hurt Or Sad Soul A Few Moments Of Distraction From Something Worse. That’s Enough For Me, Or It Isn’t Enough, But It Serves Some Purpose, And So It Is With All Of Life.

I Know Nothing And My Heart Aches

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