They sit ruffling up their feathers, and each feels his mate's wing against his wing. . . .
They are happy! And I am happy, seeing them. . . . Though I am alone . . . alone, as always.
May 1879.
TO-MORROW! TO-MORROW!
How empty, dull, and useless is almost every day when it is spent! How few the traces it leaves behind it! How meaningless, how foolish those hours as they coursed by one after another!
And yet it is man's wish to exist; he prizes life, he rests hopes on it, on himself, on the future. . . . Oh, what blessings he looks for from the future!
But why does he imagine that other coming days will not be like this day he has just lived through?
Nay, he does not even imagine it. He likes not to think at all, and he does well.
'Ah, to-morrow, to-morrow!' he comforts himself, till 'to-morrow' pitches him into the grave.
Well, and once in the grave, thou hast no choice, thou doest no more thinking.
May 1879.
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