The madness and despair of many hours unloads itself in this outburst.
They cannot persist without solace, without illusion, they are disordered before the naked picture of despair.
Their figures are bent, their faces full of grief, despair, haste, and resignation.
I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow.
It cannot be that it has gone, the yearning that made our blood unquiet, the unknown, the perplexing, the oncoming things, the thousand faces of the future, the melodies from dreams and from books, the whispers and divinations of women; it cannot be that this has vanished in bombardment, in despair, in brothels.