My world begins and ends
   with each day,
awakening and retiring
from and to a sleep without
   dreams,
a sleep without hope, like death.
To work is consolation,
a blinding to other purpose,
the mind like a hammer
driving the thought like a nail.
To lose oneself in routine
and workman-like endeavor,
although it does little to please,
and does not bring joy,
at least drowns out and silences
   other things.
What it may bring, what may ensue,
   I care not.
To what promise it might entail,
I am profoundly indifferent.
Only this day exists, encircled
by sleep-like death, death-like sleep,
the morrow but this day again,
   and again.
With the thought that you
   might not care,
or should think ill of me,
the night descends.