A force obliterates my scream and carries it spent and shattered among whistling branches of lifeless wood. Am I to be such a fool that I would rage alone against the calamity of this gloomy oppression. Where are the legions that cannot deny the plain truth of passion written in their hearts?
Was I formed in the image of despair? Better my heart be wounded than marking time in lonely parody. The world is full of broken bored fools who exchanged their passion for dull fantasies with only faint remembrances of real vision. Who will avoid the silent painless death that is life without passion?