It is a strange and disturbing observance that, despite the ease and comfort of my own state of life, it is so profoundly easy to hate everyone and everything, including myself, with my buzzing thoughts and fragile, needy body. And that pleasures enjoyed seem to serve only to delay or extend that state than to give it relief. Why, upon being perfectly comfortable, I am not perfectly happy also. And why it is so specially easy to hate and resent those who I love and depend upon most. Surely either life or the sort of thing I am is of such an odd nature to be so. And yet I do not think my condition to be purely singular. It seems to be a problem we all pursue, or perhaps rhat pursues us.