Monday, the beginning of another school-week! Another shameful, barren school-week, mere routine and mechanical activity.

Was not the adventure of death infinitely preferable?
Was not death infinitely more lovely and noble than such a life?
A life of barren routine, without inner meaning, without any real significance.
How sordid life was, how it was a terrible shame to the soul, to live now! How much cleaner and more dignified to be dead! One could not bear any more of this shame of sordid routine and mechanical nullity.

One might come to fruit in death.

She had had enough.

For where was life to be found?
No flowers grow upon busy machinery, there is no sky to a routine, there is no space to a rotary motion.