Excerptions

Whenever I've dreamt a lot, I go out into the street with my eyes open but I'm still wrapped in the safety of those dreams. And I'm amazed how many people fail to recognize my automatism. For I walk through daily life still holding the hand of my astral mistress, and my footsteps in the street are concordant and consonant with the obscure designs of my sleeping imagination. And yet I walk straight down the street; I don't stumble; I react as I should; I exist.

I created various personalities within myself. I create them constantly. Every dream, as soon as it is dreamed, is immediately embodied by another person who dreams it instead of me. In order to create, I destroyed myself; I have externalized so much of my inner life that even inside I now exist only externally. I am the living stage across which various actors pass acting out different plays.

I've reached the point where tedium has become a person, the fiction made flesh of my life with myself.

All effort is a crime because every gesture is but an inert dream.

I'm almost convinced now that I'm never truly awake. I'm not sure if it's that I don't dream when I live, or don't live when I dream, or if dream and life commingle and overlap in me and out of that interpenetration is formed my conscious being.