I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
To decompose is to live too, I know, I know, don’t torment me, but one sometimes forgets. And of that life too I shall tell you perhaps one day, the day I know that when I thought I knew I was merely existing and that passion without form or stations will have devoured me down to the rotting flesh itself and that when I know that I know nothing, am only crying out as I have always cried out, more or less piercingly, more or less openly. Let me cry out then, it’s said to be good for you. Yes let me cry out, this time, then another time perhaps, then perhaps a last time.
I can’t go on like this.