The bastard! He doesn't exist!
Habit is a great deadener.
Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it's awful.
We are all born mad. Some remain so.
We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.
To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something.
We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
Birth was the death of him.
Make sense who may. I switch off.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.