If you ask me to play myself, I will not know what to do. I do not know who or what I am.
What is it with me? Am I absolutely nobody, but merely inordinately vain? I do not know…. But I am most fearfully unhappy. That is all. I am so unhappy that I wish I was dead—yet I should be mad to die when I have not yet lived at all.
I am nobody! Who are you? Are you a nobody, too?
Although personal calling I sense—who am I? even if I am, I don't know.
I don't want to become a kind of Hirohito who produces cameras, or an Elizabeth of England who cares only for horses. Even less do I want to turn out like Juan Carlos, who's just a ghost of Franco. I have no personal ambitions.
Basic research is what I am doing when I don't know what I am doing.
I am a runner. That's what I do. That's who I am. Running is all I know, or want, or care about.
Nobody knows you.
You don't know yourself.
And I, who am half in love with you,
What am I in love with?
My own imaginings?
Sometimes I think I don't know what I'm doing
but I always end up doing what I know.
And what I know may not, I know, be a great deal
but what I know nobody can take,
nobody can take, nobody can take away from me,
no, no, no. Away from me, no, no, no.
I do what I know. Doing what I know.
Sometimes I think I don't know what I'm doing
but I always end up doing what I know.
Away we go, doing what I know.
I don’t know what I want.
Nobody knows — or if they do, they don’t know for long.