I am still obsessed with creating a false world, and will be until I die.
May the Gods all preserve for me (until my present form ceases) this clear and sunlit view of external reality, the instinctive awareness of my unimportance, the cosiness of being small, and the solace of being able to imagine myself happy.
Only when night comes do I feel, if not happiness, at least some kind of repose which I experience as contentment.
Someone who has never known constraint can have no concept of freedom.
Life lobs us into the air like a stone, and we fly along, saying as we go: You see, I'm moving.
Only at night and all alone, withdrawn, forgotten and lost, with no connection to anything real or useful – only then do I find myself and feel comforted.