Constant solitude leads to perpetual grief. Sick! Sick! Sick! Blades tear at me and I dream of shaving my body-hair, and its whiskering remains. I shall dye the embryo of my child a light blue and scream that the life I left was unformatted and unfair. Drowning in books is dying in escape while the prod of life unseats those unsober. I shall die a sad, unlonely man, a stricken man.
