We are two abysses - a well staring at the sky.

The startling reality of things is my discovery every single day.

It is noble to be shy, illustrious not to know how to act, great not to have a gift for living.

Wasting time has an esthetics to it.

Ah, it's my longing for whom I might have been that distracts and torments me!

I am the outskirts of some non-existent town, the long-winded prologue to an unwritten book. I'm nobody, nobody. I don't know how to feel or think or love. I'm a character in a novel as yet unwritten, hovering in the air and undone before I've even existed, amongst the dreams of someone who never quite managed to breath life into me.

Never read a book to the end, nor even in sequence and without skipping.