From time to time I sink into a gloomy fit, on account of many little things, on account of annoyances and failures. The world is not a garden full of perfume, as it seems on joyful days, but a blackness of hell, a dreadful place where you just curse the day that gave you birth. There is no gratitude, no beauty. Instead, there exists only anger, shame, misery and listless eyes. At the end of two or three somber sunsets, I always see sparkling points on the surface of darkness and I begin to get my breath back. My voice and my mien become more lively. My mind forgets the reasons of my mischief, and I stop arranging intrigues against myself. Things are no grizzled, but bright; things do not flurry but give me peace. Then, I gracefully walk beneath the rays of a newly risen sun, under a heaven hung by rosy and light veils instead of heavy storm clouds. The cause of my folly never change: stubborness and oversight. When my soul becomes a slave of this body, forgetting the purpose of life, I sink into absurdity. I do not need a reader of Fate to know I will go the bad road again.