Every gesture is a revolutionary act.
Both objectively and subjectively speaking, I'm sick of myself. I'm sick of everything, and of everything about everything.
O night in which the stars feign light, O night that alone is the size of the Universe, make me, body and soul, part of your body, so that—being mere darkness—I'll lose myself and become night as well, without any dreams as stars within me, nor a hoped-for sun shining with the future.
We were so tenuous and slight that the wind's passing left us prostrate, and time's passage caressed us like a breeze grazing the top of a palm.
So great is my tedium, so overwhelming the horror of being alive, that I cannot imagine what could possibly serve as a palliative, an antidote, a balm, a source of oblivion.
What happens to us either happens to everyone or only to us: in the first instance it's banal; in the second it's incomprehensible.