When you are living, nothing happens. The settings change. People come in and go out, that's all. There are never any beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, it is an endless, monotonous addition.
I am, I exist, I think therefore I am; I am because I think, why do I think? I don't want to think any more, I am because I think that I don't want to be, I think that I... because... Ugh!
I who am listening, I exist. Everything is full, existence everywhere, dense and heavy and sweet. But, beyond all this sweetness, inaccessible, quite close, so far away alas, young, merciless, and serene, there is this...this rigour.
"Kişi yalnız yaşayınca anlatmak denen şeyin bile ne olduğunu artık bilemez hale geliyor: Değil olanlar, olması mümkünler bile dostlarla birlikte yitip gidiyor."