text_original: Then, in some sort a stranger to our ordinary existence, we create for ourselves a melancholy waste, a vast solitude, and for the absent one some terrible world of peril, of monsters, arid of deceit ; the various faculties which make up our being are changed into and lost in an infinite longing for the missing one ; everything about us seems utterly indifferent to us. And yet we still breathe, and move, and act, but without our own volition.
text_transcription: THEN IN SOME SORT A STRANGER TO OUR ORDINARY EXISTENCE WE CREATE FOR OURSELVES A MELANCHOLY WASTE A VAST SOLITUDE AND FOR THE ABSENT ONE SOME TERRIBLE WORLD OF PERIL OF MONSTERS AND OF DECEIT THE VARIOUS FACULTIES WHICH MAKE UP OUR BEING ARE CHANGED INTO AND LOST IN AN INFINITE LONGING FOR THE MISSING ONE EVERYTHING ABOUT US SEEMS UTTERLY INDIFFERENT TO US AND YET WE STILL BREATHE AND MOVE AND ACT BUT WITHOUT OUR OWN VOLITION
phonemes: ðˈɛn, ɪn sˌʌm sˈɔːɹt ɐ stɹˈeɪndʒɚ tʊ ˌaʊɚɹ ˈɔːɹdɪnˌɛɹi ɛɡzˈɪstəns, wiː kɹiːˈeɪt fɔːɹ aʊɚsˈɛlvz ɐ mˈɛləŋkˌɑːli wˈeɪst, ɐ vˈæst sˈɑːlɪtˌuːd, ænd fɚðɪ ˈæbsənt wˈʌn sˌʌm tˈɛɹᵻbəl wˈɜːld ʌv pˈɛɹəl, ʌv mˈɔnstɚz, ˈæɹɪd ʌv dᵻsˈiːt ; ðə vˈɛɹiəs fˈækəltiz wˌɪtʃ mˌeɪk ˌʌp ˌaʊɚ bˌiːɪŋ ɑːɹ tʃˈeɪndʒd ˌɪntʊ ænd lˈɔst ɪn ɐn ˈɪnfɪnət lˈɔŋɪŋ fɚðə mˈɪsɪŋ wˌʌn ; ˈɛvɹɪθˌɪŋ ɐbˌaʊt ˌʌs sˈiːmz ˈʌɾɚli ɪndˈɪfɹənt tʊ ˌʌs. ænd jˈɛt wiː stˈɪl bɹˈiːð, ænd mˈuːv, ænd ˈækt, bˌʌt wɪðˌaʊt ˌaʊɚɹ ˈoʊn vəlˈɪʃən.