The Book of Disquiet

by Fernando Pessoa

the plausible intimacy of approaching evening,

because I have nothing else to love or perhaps too, because even though nothing truly merits the love of any soul, if, out of sentiment, we must give it, I might just as well lavish it on the smallness of an inkwell as on the grand indifference of the stars.

Art, which offers relief from life without actually relieving one of living, and which is as monotonous as life itself but in a different way.