This dreadful hour when I shrink to being possible or rise to mortality. If only the morning wouldn't dawn. If only I and this alcove and its interior atmosphere where I belong could all be spiritualized into Night, absolutized into Darkness, so that not so much as a shadow of me would remain that could taint, with my memory, whatever lived on.
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, text 185
This passage from Pessoa seems to fit the mood I'm in, and the terrible liminality that haunts me.
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