Everything was asleep as if the universe was a mistake.

I pass times, I pass silences, formless worlds pass me by.

Not pleasure, not glory, not power: freedom, only freedom.

The house clock, place certain there at the bottom of things, strikes the half hour dry and null. All is so much, all is so deep, all is so dark and cold!

Are we alone in an uncaring universe, or is God some kind of wiseguy?

It happens that the stage sets collapse. Rising, streetcar, four hours in the office or the factory, meal, streetcar, four hours of work, meal, sleep and Monda…

A sad spectacle. If they be inhabited, what a scope for misery and folly. It they be not inhabited, what a waste of space.