Dear Dreams, Dear Diary

Philosophy is dead, and we have killed her. The murderers of all murderers, we – philosophers, how can we console ourselves? For we have prostituted her – my dear darling Wisdom! Oh Wisdom! How you lie alone with your agony in the midst of this deserted cell, where once the palace of grandeur and beauty stood, the temple of peace and prosperity, now abandoned, in dust. The landscape is vast, there rest our dear old friends – no! They are no longer our friends my fellow philosophers, for we have betrayed them! The gloomy tomb filled with thick air, dead skeletal branches seemingly expand towards infinity, and my heart sinks in synchrony, with the darkness of the graveyard permeating, as I have become far too ill, far too conscious of, myself, and now of the world. The peace that I long for, accelerates away from me like an old quasar, I have fallen into the deep cosmos of nothingness, absolute nothingness, where my cries are silent, my lungs suffocate. Only that I have come too soon, and too late. Too soon for my life, too late, for my love…