The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
You’re on earth. There’s no cure for that.
Where I am, I don’t know, I’ll never know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.
What do you expect, one is what one is, partly at least.
We are all born mad. Some remain so.
To restore silence is the role of objects.
To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.
There’s man all over for you, blaming on his boots the faults of his feet.
There is a little of everything, apparently, in nature, and freaks are common.
The words are everywhere, inside me, outside me.
The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? From time to time. There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.