no progress, not the slightest step forward, rather instead some retreating, and nothing but repetitions.
No true thinking. Nothing but moods; ever less coherent changing moods; nothing but bits, scraps of life, apparent thoughts, fragments rescued from a debacle or worsening it. Scattered moments, broken off days, scattered words, because a hand touched a stone colder than cold.
Distant from dawn, indeed.
All the same, this cannot be left unsaid..."
from And, Nonetheless: Selected Prose and Poetry 1990-2009, Philippe Jaccottet p.359