So I ran away, blindly, knowing nothing of the world outside. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. “I would have given up anything to see you your old self again—as you are this evening. The door opened. Will you unlock that door?” “Never!” he said.
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