I Take With Me The Conscience Of

I'm Sick Of Everything, And Of The Everythingness Of Everything.

There's A Tiredness Of Abstract Inteligence, And It's The Most Horrible Of Tirednesses. It Doesn't Weight On You Like The Tiredness Of The Body, Nor Does It Worry You Like The Tiredness Of Knowledge And Emotion. It's A Weightiness Of The Conscience Of The World, An Inability Of The Soul To Breathe.

Isn't Joyful Or Painful This Pain In Which I Rejoice

My Soul's The Present Shadow Of A Presence Gone.

To Love Is To Tire Of Being Alone; It Is Therefore A Cowardice, A Betrayal Of Ourselves. (it Is Exceedingly Important That We Not Love.)