My soul today is sad to the very marrow of its bones. Everything hurts me - memory, eyes, arms. It’s like having rheumatism in every part of my being. The limpid brightness of the day, the great pure blue sky, the steady tide of diffuse light, none of this touches my being. I remain unmoved by the light autumnal breeze, that still bears a trace of unforgotten summer and lends colour to the air. Nothing means anything to me. I’m sad, but not with a definite or even an indefinite sadness. My sadness is out there, in the street strewn with boxes.
