It Is So Comic To Hear Oneself

It Is An Immense Loss To Have All Robust And Sustaining Expletives Refined Away From One! At. Moments Of Trial Refinement Is A Feeble Reed To Lean Upon.

I Think That If I Get Into The Habit Of Writing A Bit About What Happens, Or Rather Doesn't Happen, I May Lose A Little Of The Sense Of Isolation And Desolation Which Abides With Me. My Circumstances Allowing Of Nothing But The Ejaculation Of One-syllabled Reflections, A Written Monologue By That Most Interesting Being, Myself, May Have Its Yet To Be Discovered Consolations.

The Gain Isn't Counted To The Recluse And Inactive That, Having Nothing To Measure Themselves By And Never Being Tested By Failure, They Simmer And Soak Perpetually In Conscious Complacency.

How Sick One Gets Of Being "good," How Much I Should Respect Myself If I Could Burst Out And Make Everyone Wretched For Twenty-four Hours; Embody Selfishness.

I Wonder, Whether, If I Had Had Any Education I Should Have Been More, Or Less, Of A Fool Than I Am. It Would Have Deprived Me Surely Of Those Exquisite Moments Of Mental Flatulence Which Every Now And Then Inflate The Cerebral Vacuum With A Delicious Sense Of Latent Possibilities-of Stretching Oneself To Cosmic Limits, And Who Would Ever Give Up The Reality Of Dreams For Relative Knowledge?