Something strange in my personality, something I have until now been unable to unclasp, or understand, or come near. It is procrastination, and at the same time, haste. Yes, I was a mixture of the procrastination that never ends, and the limpness in recalling time, and the limpness in dealing with the young. Yes, and at the same time, above that limpness, there was haste. Between the limpness in dealing with time and the haste, there was regret. Regret was a master that never ends, and regret was that thing ruling over all my futures. That thing which rules and never ceases to rule, which controls the details of the details, which wants everything and leaves nothing to anyone else. It is regret; it kills me swiftly, little by little, sickness upon sickness, but it kills me. That excitement which ends in regret, that impulse which ends in regret, that love which ends in regret, that time which ends in regret, that imagination which ends in regret, everything ends in regret. I was a phrase of regret in regret in regret in regret. People are created from clay, and I am created from regret. Regret was that thing of strangeness which never ends, like a universe, like dreams, like everything.