I see nothing before me ... no hope. Everything for me is finished, anything you start. A balance? After so many years, yet intense, hard working yet ... Who am I? A tired empleadito seven hours burolencia , whose pretensions of writing have been drowned. But I can not write this diary. Everything has gone to hell because day after day, for seven hours, carried out the murder of my own time.
Witold Gombrowicz, Argentina Journal .
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