Something draws us here. Something demands attention - is it simply ourselves? Or is there more here - is there something real? Outside it is no different - the city walls scrawled with my discontent. My only reality is dissatisfaction and unending restlessness.

When I allow the intoxication of interaction, I even in my stupor am aware of the impending sickness. It amazes to see others stumbling always - can they face the starkness that is the seasons unmasked?

Suppose then that I am bitter and empty from my inadequecies and unwillingness to deal with others and subjective wonderment. You may if you wish. I cannot