I walk ahead of myself in perpetual expectancy of miracles.
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I looked with chameleon eyes upon the changing face of the world, looked with anonymous vision upon my uncompleted self.
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We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.
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And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
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If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation.
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