Why, when the sun shines 
Am I feeling so cold
Why, though I am eighteen
Am I feeling so old

Why, though I am awake
Do I feel like sleeping
Why, when I am happy,
Do I find me weeping

Why, though I feasted
Am I still so hungry
Why, when they are right 
Do I get so angry

In this mass of many contradictions
In this mass- of my existence
In this confusion of situations
No thought, no more, no insistence

Why, though you are sincere
Do I not believe you
Why, when you suffer
Can’t I relieve you

Why, though I am free
Do I feel chained
Why, through the joy
Do I feel pained

Why, though I am honest
Do I then lie
Why, though I live
Do I want to die

No thoughts, no more, no insistence
Only the indefinable vagueness
Just a continual persistence
Of what?… Blank… Nothing-ness