My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
Life piles up so fast that I have no time to write out the equally fast rising mound of reflections.
Night had come—night that she loved of all times, night in which the reflections in the dark pool of the mind shine more clearly than by day.
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