If ever is there a passing solace for me.
When I read through the pages, I encounter myself, my own vivid images and feelings, paraphrased in more concrete preciseness. Just like looking at a mirror for the first time after 50 years living on a deserted island.
In other words, it feeds my narcicism.
The page contains thousands of worlds, of nuances, sounds and colors.
The letters fling themselves up to me, trying to talk to me.
I know it, right from the beginning.
Books that are friendly and books that are not.
Back to the house where I feel like a strangled man, his face pale-blue with suffocation, his little remaining engergy all focused on how to get his head out of the rope.
That tiny thread that connects me to the world has been cut off, one nanometer a second.
Let the breath that goes from my lung be joined with a world filled with warmth, with fresh colors.
Henceforth, let me sleep through this anguished hour with images and dreams.
Existentia preceeds essentia.
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