Life. . . I was, again, like so many years ago already, at that extreme where life is not so much as a useless and humiliating repetition, but only the incessant memory of that repetition, which, in the beginning, was also a repetition, I was at that point, at that final place, at that extreme, where the act of being doesn't even matter, or rather it isn't really certain that it's true.-Reinaldo Arenas (1943-1990)
