[The beginning of a book which on a whim I decided to start writing.]

What does it take to be an everyman?

I know I let another day slip by, the time floating through me and encroaching upon my skin, making it slowly, inevitably more like stone. This is all a dream. But I write things down, anyway, even if the paper will vanish come the end of night. I find the madness comes and goes, the thought that is not a thought leaving me twisted — if only for a moment. I have seen snakes in the fire. Seeing, too, that I have been alone for some time, now, occasionally happy in my own way: I have forgotten what is touch, what it is to feel someone breathing. Notions: another day has fallen, another cycle closed, a dream forgotten.