posted on August 19, 2003 @ 7:11 pm
"my weakness," moby
"I have neither a fear, nor a presentiment, nor a hope of death. Why should I? With my hard constitution and temperate mode of living, and unperilous occupations, I ought to, and probably shall remain above ground, till there is scarcely a black hair on my head � And yet I cannot continue in this condition! I have to remind myself to breathe � almost to remind my heart to beat! And it is like bending back a stiff sprig: it is by compulsion that I do the slightest act not prompted by one thought, and by compulsion, that I notice anything alive or dead, which is not associated with one universal idea. I have a single wish, and my whole being and faculties are yearning to attain it. They have yearned towards it so long, and so unwaveringly, that I'm convinced it will be reached � and soon � because it has devoured my existence: I am swallowed in the anticipation of its fulfilment. My confessions have not relieved me; but they may account for some otherwise unaccountable phases of humour which I show. O, God! It is a long fight, I wish it were over!"
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