My Dreams Are A Stupid Refuge, Like

I Suffer From Life And From Other People. I Can’t Look At Reality Face To Face. Even The Sun Discourages And Depresses Me. Only At Night And All Alone, Withdrawn, Forgotten And Lost, With No Connection To Anything Real Or Useful — Only Then Do I Find Myself And Feel Comforted.

Inch By Inch I Conquered The Inner Terrain I Was Born With. Bit By Bit I Reclaimed The Swamp In Which I'd Languished. I Gave Birth To My Infinite Being, But I Had To Wrench Myself Out Of Me With Forceps.

But Do We Really Live? To Live Without Knowing What Life Is - Is That Living?

In The Very Corner Of My Soul There Is An Altar To A Different God.

I Want To Be A Work Of Art, At Least In My Soul, Since I Can’t Be One In My Body.