I grew to hate what had been only a joke.

I never ceased poring upon the means to bring to pass my pain, to douse good and hard, and came that length with my grief at last, as to go without what I could no long take account. The only means I go about is the only means I do; to staunch the bleeding, to ward off any invasions that is about to happen. Invasions, truces, understanding, adultery, infidelity, trends, bureaucracies, memories, sciences. Not. Human chemistry, stories and strangers and art and deceits and true love and more grief and more room for more separation and less conjunction for more rest.

Sweet.