Late, by myself, in the boat of myself, no light and no land anywhere, cloudcover thick. I try to stay just above the surface, yet I'm already under and living within the ocean.
Do you think I know what I'm doing? That for one breath or half-breath I belong to myself? As much as a pen knows what it's writing, or the ball can guess where it's going next.
There is a light seed grain inside. You fill it with yourself, or it dies.
When you reach the bottom of the well of your own nature, then you will know that the vileness was from yourself.
You have mourned over others; now sit down for a while and weep over your own self.
Pour out wine till I become a wanderer from myself; for in selfhood and existence I have felt only fatigue.
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