They seem to have disowned me. They refuse to formulate in a linear, sequential form. I can sense them all around me, within me. At the end of his street, on the other side of the mirror, beneath the burden of sanity, caught among the forced intimacy of a routine, in two-minute thrills and over those simple pleasures of innocuous events. I think that stringing them together, filtering them, sifting through them would make it all comprehensible. Though, it isn't incomprehensible, now or ever. Then why this urge? Why this itch to make my life seem lyrical on a page? Why this faint disappointment that words don't flow out of my veins? Why this need to let them come pirouetting out of my unclenched fists? Instead I do no justice to myself. It seems not me who felt this...