Around about seven o'clock in the evening I begin to feel tugs at my heart; I start to sit very still and stare vacantly into space. Feelings without thoughts seem to batter at my rib cage and a deep melancholy possesses my whole being. Then only the alleviation of tears softens my suffering, then only the love for others lightens the bleakness of my own dislike, then only the faintest candle of my hopes will remain to guide me to bed and to-morrow. Are these the moments when we do not walk but are carried?