One more thing by Pessoa that I arranged a bit.
In my ignoble and deep soul, I record, day by day, the impressions that make up the external substance of my self-awareness, I translate them into wandering words that desert me the moment I write them down and that wander, independent of me, through slopes and meadows of images, through avenues of concepts, through paths of confusion. And this serves me nothing because nothing serves any purpose. But I free myself from worry by writing, like one who breathes easier even if the illness has not passed. Like a cat in the sun, and I sometimes reread them with a vague late astonishment, as if I were remembering something I had always forgotten.