I Hope I Have Found Myself, My

Realism Is Death To Me. I Cannot Stand Life As It Is.

It Was A Decent New Year's, But It Took A Million Officers To Make It So.

I Can Write Best In The Silence And Solitude Of The Night, When Everyone Has Retired.

What Makes Life Worth Living? Better Surely, To Yield To The Stain Of Suicide Blood In Me And Seek Forgetfulness In The Embrace Of Cold Dark Death.

The Difficulty, The Ordeal, Is To Start.