For Your Own Good Is

I Am Not Really A Writer. I Am Just Someone Who Is Haunted, And I Will Write The Hauntings Down.

It Would Be Nice To Travel If You Knew Where You Were Going And Where You Would Live At The End Or Do We Ever Know, Do We Ever Live Where We Live, We're Always In Other Places, Lost, Like Sheep.

Listening To Her, One Experienced A Deep Uneasiness As Of Having Avoided An Urgent Responsibility, Like Someone Who, Walking At Night Along The Banks Of A Stream, Catches A Glimpse In The Water Of A White Face Or A Moving Limb And Turns Quickly Away, Refusing To Help Or To Search For Help. We All See The Faces In The Water. We Smother Our Memory Of Them, Even Our Belief In Their Reality, And Become Calm People Of The World; Or We Can Neither Forget Or Help Them. Sometimes By A Trick Of Circumstances Or Dream Or A Hostile Neighborhood Of Light We See Our Own Face.

It Is Always Hard To Believe That The Will To Change Something Does Not Produce An Immediate Change.

I Inhabited A Territory Of Loneliness Which Resembles The Place Where The Dying Spend Their Time Before Death, And From Where Those Who Do Return, Living, To The World Bring, Inevitably, A Unique Point Of View That Is A Nightmare, A Treasure, And A Lifelong Possession.[it Is] Equal In Its Rapture And Chilling Exposure [to] The Neighbourhood Of The Ancient Gods And Goddesses.