The Book of Disquiet

by Fernando Pessoa

Before my unfeeling eyes, the repressed bitterness of my whole life peels off the suit of natural joy it wears in the prolonged, randomness of every day. I realize that I’m always sad, however happy or content I may often feel.

live on what is vague and vestigial, amongst the extravagant purples of madness and the false lace of imagined majesties

There is no peace and, alas for me, not even a desire to find it…