It was difficult to be, not
for the human in him, but for
the animal, which had not the
strength to carry
the leaden weight of
consciousness. The knowledge
that he was alive prevented
him
from living. It formed
a sleepless face that looked
at his emotions until they
crept
away like actors
from a bad performance
and that thought that he
thought,
until each thought deepened
to
nothing in this cold light.
He
was himself the enemy, and
wrote
books in order to defeat
himself,
but in such a battle the only
possible victory is too
great.
He won. In the silence
afterwards came a few
last fumbling words.
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