One always dies too soon – or too late. And yet one’s whole life is complete at that moment, with a line drawn neatly under it, ready for the summing up. You are – your life, and nothing else.
One always dies too soon – or too late. And yet one’s whole life is complete at that moment, with a line drawn neatly under it, ready for the summing up. You are – your life, and nothing else.
Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance.
One dies if necessary, one breaks rather than bending. But I bend, because I continue to love myself.