 So I stormed inside and wept and tossed about in confusion, and there was no rest, no counsel. For I carried about my crushed and bleeding soul, which could not bear that I should carry it, and I found no place where I could lay it down. Not in pleasant groves, not in games and songs, not in sweet-smelling gardens, not in fancy banquets, not in the pleasures of the bedroom and the bed, not even in books and poetry, nowhere could it rest content. All things were a horror. The very light and whatever was not what he was, was worthless and wearysome to me, all except moaning and tears, and those alone that I find a little peace. But as soon as I left off my weeping, a great burden of misery weighed me down.