Should You Ask Me If

Art Gives Us The Illusion Of Liberation From The Sordid Business Of Being.

When I Write, I Solemnly Visit Myself.

Everyone Has His Vanity, And Each One's Vanity Is His Forgetting That There Are Others With An Equal Soul.

Against Destiny I Fulfilled My Duty. Uselessly? No, For I Fulfilled It.

For A Long Time Now I Haven't Existed. I'm Utterly Calm. No One Distinguishes Me From Who I Am. I Just Felt Myself Breath As If I'd Done Something New, Or Done It Late. I'm Beginning To Be Conscious Of Being Conscious. Perhaps Tomorrow I Will Wake Up To Myself And Resume The Course Of My Existence. I Don't Know If That Will Make More Happy Or Less. I Don't Know Anything.