“The sensation of remoteness and loneliness, in moment when my worldly person has dissolved into inconsistency, is different from any other sensations. When it lasts for longer, it becomes a fear, a phobia of not being able to ever regain myself again.

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The terrible question of who I really am lives then inside of me like an entirely new entity, grown inside with a skin and organs that are completely unknown to me. Its resolution requires a lucidity more profound and more essential than that of the brain.

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There was, in all of this, a sort of melancholy of existence and a sort of organized suffering. That crepuscular state that preceded my crises and the sentiment of profound uselessness of the world that followed them, have somehow become my natural state.

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The uselessness has filled bits and cracks of the world like a liquid that would have spread in every direction, and the sky above me, the ever so correct sky, absurd and undefined, has acquired the color of my own despair. In this uselessness that surrounds me and under this forever cursed sky I still roam today.”

M. Blecher

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