is a sad spectacle of people at bedtime, it is clear that they care a fuck how things go, it is clear that no attempt to understand those, why we're here. I do not care. Sleep anyway, are a wimp, a few dunces, not susceptibility, American or not. Always have a clear conscience. I had seen too many unclear things to be happy. Knew too much and not enough. We must leave, I said, get out. Maybe you find it, to Robinson. It was a stupid idea, obviously, but relied on her to have an excuse to go out again, especially as he vainly went round and piltra that turns on so small, I could not sleep a wink for a moment. Not even masturbate, in such cases, experience comfort or distraction. So you're feeling a desperation to do. The worst thing is that you ask yourself where will you get strong enough the next morning to continue doing what you've done the previous day so long ago, where you will find the strength to the bustle absurd, for these thousand projects that never leave However, these attempts to escape from the overwhelming necessity, always aborted attempts, and convincing you to end it all once again that the destination is invincible, that we must fall back at the foot of the wall, every night, with the anguish the next day, more and more precarious, more sordid. Age is also approaching perhaps treacherous, and threatens us with the worst. We no longer have too much to make dance music in the life is there. All young people have gone to die at the end of the world in the silence of the truth. And where to go, out, tell me, when you carry no sufficient amount of delirium? The truth is agonizing and endless. The truth of this world is death. We must choose: to die or lie. I've never been able to kill.
In Journey to the End of the Night of Louis-Ferdinand Céline.
In Journey to the End of the Night of Louis-Ferdinand Céline.
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