If I Used Being Busy

All Of Us Are Imperfect Human Beings Living In An Imperfect World.

But Even So, Every Now And Then I Would Feel A Violent Stab Of Loneliness. The Very Water I Drink, The Very Air I Breathe, Would Feel Like Long, Sharp Needles. The Pages Of A Book In My Hands Would Take On The Threatening Metallic Gleam Of Razor Blades. I Could Hear The Roots Of Loneliness Creeping Through Me When The World Was Hushed At Four O'clock In The Morning.

I Think I'll Stay Alive Here A Bit Longer, And See With My Own Eyes What's Going To Happen. I Can Still Die After That - It Won't Be Too Late. Probably.

All Right, Then, I Thought: Here I Am In The Bottom Of A Well.

I Realize Now That The Reality Of Things Is Not Something You Convey To People But Something You Make.