For a long time-always, in fact-I have known that life here on earth is not what I needed and that I wasn't able to deal with it; for this reason and for this reason alone, I have acquired a touch of spiritual pride, so that my existence seems to me the degradation and the erosion of a psalm.

I do not forgive myself for being born. It is as if creeping into this world, I had profaned a mystery, betrayed some momentous pledge, committed a fault of na…

There was a time when time did not yet exist... The rejection of birth is nothing but the nostalgia for this time before time.

What is that one crucifixion compared to the daily kind any insomniac endures?