Things on the Internet.

Everything, all that I’ve written, is grey. My life, even my mental life, has been like a drizzly day in which everything is non-occurrence and haziness, empty privilege and forgotten purpose. I agonize in tattered silks. In the light and in tedium I see but don’t know myself. My humble attempt to say at least who I am, to record like a machine of nerves the slightest impressions of my subjective and ultra-sensitive life – this was all emptied like a bucket that got knocked over, and it poured across the ground like the water of everything. I fashioned myself out of false colours, and the result is an attic made out to be an empire. My heart, out of which I spun the great events of prose I lived, seems to me today – in these pages written long ago and reread now with a different soul – like a water pump on a homestead, instinctively installed and pressed into service. I shipwrecked on an unstormy sea where my feet could have touched bottom. And I ask the conscious vestige that I still conserve, in this confused series of intervals between non-existent things, what good it did me to fill so many pages with phrases I believed in as my own, with emotions I felt as if I had thought them up, with flags and army banners that finally amount to no more than pieces of paper stuck together with spit by the daughter of the beggar who sits under the eaves. I ask what remains of me why I bothered with these useless pages, dedicated to rubbish and dispersion, lost even before existing among Destiny’s ripped up papers.

“But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?”

H. D. Born Today, September 10, 1886

Solitude is very dangerous. Great passions grow into monsters in the dark of the mind. But if you share them with loving friends, they remain human. They can be endured.