I return to dream with myself and give myself up to all the force of my melancholy. What madness makes me desire my own destruction? Without a doubt, the problem of what to do in this world...life is a burden to me because I feel no pleasure and everything is affliction to me. It is a burden to me because the men with whom I live and will probably always live, have ways as different from mine as the light of the moon from that of the sun. I cannot then pursue the only manner of living which could enable me to put up with existence, whence follows a disgust for everything.