This is a thankless endeavour. Not a peep, not a whisper. It’s a game of hide and seek gone wrong, or I Spy with no I and nothing spied. What madness compels me to keep doing it? This doesn’t exist without you, who remain indifferent. It is a conundrum, a quandary, a pickle: I don’t like you yet this is pointless without you. Don’t take it personally because you don’t exist: how can you dislike something that doesn’t exist? I resent your non-existent indifference, I begrudge your imaginary apathy. When famous people say they love their fans, don’t trust them: their fans are just the screaming voices in their head, a populous extension of their ego. I love writing – it is the only thing that lends meaning to my life – but a text is a dead thing if it goes unread. At this rate, this is becoming a cemetery. I have only myself to blame. You see, I can’t-don’t-won’t play the game. And there is always the very real possibility that these texts are simply not good enough to make their way into verifiable, certifiable existence. And so their progenitor lives on in limbo, half wanting to die along with his deluded doodles, half wanting to live on for the pleasures he loves. Yesterday, for example, I felt a genuine urge to throw myself into the river as I walked next to its icy, counter-flowing current. But then I thought, no, it’s too cold, I will immediately come to my senses and drag myself to the bank, not the financial one you understand, but the concrete one. The will to live is infuriatingly strong and painfully self-diminishing. So the words keep dribbling out of me. I do not want to be personally “discovered”: fame would be deadly to a lucifugous creature like me. Last night as I was lying in bed, emotionally exhausted from an especially gruelling day, I convinced myself that I would go on textual strike. The idea appeased me and I promptly fell into a fitful sleep. But when I woke up the idea seemed foolish, even childish. I eagerly made coffee, greedily rolled a cigarette. Bacon was right: hope makes a good breakfast (but a poor supper).