I am nobody but myself.

The clock ticked with empty urgency, as though trying to catch up with the time. In the street a siren howled.

So why do I write, torturing myself to put it down? Because in spite of myself I've learned some things. Without the possibility of action, all knowledge comes to one labeled "file and forget," and I can neither file nor forget. Nor will certain ideas forget me; they keep filing away at my lethargy, my complacency. Why should I be the one to dream this nightmare?

Having tried to give pattern to the chaos which lives within the pattern of your certainties, I must come out, I must emerge.

If only all the contradictory voices shouting in my head would calm down and sing a song in unison, whatever it was I wouldn't care as long as they sang without dissonance.

It is sometimes advantageous to be unseen, although it is most often rather wearing on the nerves.

Injustice wears ever the same harsh face wherever it shows itself.