Book: Diaries. Page 2

It probably lies in the nature of friendship and accompanies her as a shadow: one that welcomes or the other about the same regrets, the third just does not notice...

Doubt, as the ring, surrounded by every word, I see them before the word itself, - what am I saying! - I do not see the word, I invent it.

But if I didn't have enough upper lip here, there ear, here rib, there a finger, if I were the head hairless spots and facial pockmarks, it would still not have been enough semblance of my inner imperfections.

We may own hand to raise himself a whip.

But I can't myself to leave, I am completely alone.

I like stone, I like the tombstone itself, not even slits for doubt or faith, for love, or disgust, for bravery or fear of something in particular or at all, lives only a shaky hope; barren as the inscriptions on the tombstones.

The picture of discontent, which is a street: each is repelled from the place where he is to go.

The wound hurts so much, not because it is deep and big, but because it is old. When an old wound is opened again and again, again cut the place which many times operated, it's awful.

H: why argue? We still get together. I will be telling her until tomorrow, and neither are you.
L: I until tomorrow.

I am unable to endure anxiety and, probably, is created to die from anxiety. When I have enough will weaken and this will not have long to wait - probably enough to be the slightest anxiety to unsettle me.

I punctuality, because you don't feel the pain of waiting.

As I lie here on the couch, one kick kicked out of the world, await a dream that won't come and if they come, I will only touch me, my joints aching from fatigue, my lean body exhausting a shiver of excitement, a sense which it does not dare to have a firm grip knocks in temples.

When I after a break to start writing, I seem to pull every word out of the void. Get one word - only one it is I have, and again we have to start all over.

I have a lot of time to be alone. All I did, just the fruit alone.