Do I not have a plot to my life? for I am unexpectedly fragmentary.

I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.

But now I want to say things that comfort me and that are a little free. For example: Thursdat is a day transparent as an insect's wing in the light. Just as Monday is a compact day. Ultimately, far beyond thought, I live from these ideas, if ideas is what they are. They are sensations that transform into ideas because I must use words. Even just using them mentally. The primary thought thinks with words.

Sometimes writing a single line is enough to save your own heart.

(...) às vezes não se tem o que escrever mesmo quando se tem o que falar.

I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.

I write to save someone's life, probably my own

So long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.

No it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.