I have such a desire to sleep and am so much behind my sleep. A good night, one good night and all this nonsense will be swept away.
I am no longer sure of anything. If I satiate my desires, I sin but I deliver myself from them; if I refuse to satisfy them, they infect the whole soul.
And I too wanted to be. That is all I wanted; and this is the last word. At the bottom of all these attempts which seemed without bounds, I find the same desire again: to drive existence out of me, to rid the passing moments of their fat, to twist them, dry them, purify myself, harden myself, to give back at last the sharp, precise sound of a saxophone note. That could even make an apologue: there was a poor man who got in the wrong world.
This desire [to write] is rather strange all the same and is not without a certain "cracked" quality.
I believe, I desire, that social and economic ills may be remedied.
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