I'm going to be woken up many more times today. Who would have thought long ago that there would be a time when it would be better to hide, or to rest like moles in the ground. To disappear like a wild trail, whimsical and sudden, and to fold myself under without a sound. Already I deceive myself, I deceive myself, while I endure this relentless, greedy agony driven on by a lucrative careerist, a race for validation.
The softening man, outcast, still crying, looks back in me, suddenly searching for his place, his self. The old cancerous bottom of crying spasms shakes out of me pain, self-destructive anguish, self-devouring mood. I look through life as one who no longer cares what the moderns or the greats think of him!
I am bound here in exile, and what is left is a desolation, and in my heart there can be no refuge of wise peace. - The wandering stairs, like shackles, hold me in, and will not let me go. Arrogant, pitch-born, mongrel, impious, profane talk, infects the best of marcona souls everywhere.
How I have wept, how I have whimpered, how I have cried like a child forgotten in the storm, from which I have hitherto been incessantly fleeing. The everlasting gloom of evil, of cursed horrors, like a trapping terror, compels me to trust no one. I hover high above a handful of a mob, yet I must constantly prove my place, if need be.
A double, helpless fatigue in the filthy swamp of things, the imprint of my wasted memories and deeds, like a robber's chain, trailing my feet. Dirty chess A double, helpless fatigue in the filthy swamp of things, the imprint of my wasted memories and deeds, like a robber's chain, trailing my feet. A dirty chessboard has become a player's life! My ropes are in tatters!