"I lost this book for what seems like an eternity, though it feels like I've been losing myself for a very long time--not to darkness, but ot a sort of hazy indifference, all the while dissatisfied and searching, searching. It seems to me that I've forgotten the significance of every single breath I take, and I certainly can't promise that something will occur to me, and I will suddenly remember, but perhaps this is enough--the late nights of complete soul-searching emptiness, in seeking out that which is indescribably beautiful but facing it with trembling fingers and open mouths of awe. Feeling so close to near-perfection, but feeling myself so very far away, like a heavy and unwieldy boulder at the bottom of a tall Strawberry Hill, and maybe I need to be broken down into smaller pieces, or even disintegrated by the relentless flood of rain--no cleanser of the world, for it leaves everything a muddy mess, which I can't help but bumble through, staining new shoes and wondering what it might be like not to fuck things up for a chnage, or to feel fire burning on my lips for even just a second, though I'd probably feel the bitter cold even more when it leaves.

"I wish for entirely too many things that I cannot have, and imagine and long for things that I've never seen in my life.

"I want, no yearn for everything to be just as beautiful as a warped piece of glass--the studio's mistake, but clear and free.

"And so what is this unending path, so dark ahead in the forest--I am as afraid as Little Red Riding Hood who read all the books she shouldn't have. Surely, there is some dead end in a lovely glade, peaceful and verdant.

"What do I want? What do I want? What do I need?

"I don't know anything. I am nothing."