My ill-starred hopes,
born of the life I’ve been forced to live.
I won’t have spoken,
I’ll have told.
Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.
I’ve witnessed,
incognito,
the gradual collapse of my life,
the slow foundering of all that I wanted to be.
The loser in this game can indeed count on my boss’s charity in the future,
for he’s a generous man.
I quickly clear their path of mental
objects that might cause them to make gestures.
I would look forward to finishing my normal day’s work—which to me is
monotonously abnormal day after day—and then take the tram to Benca with some friends.
It’s something else,
something all my own that’s related to my feeling of isolation,
that participates in the night and in the silence,
and that chooses the lamp as an anchor because it’s the only anchor there is.
It’s between my sensations and my consciousness of
them that all of my life’s great tragedies occur.