In the residues of thought I scramble. I can never stay in one place long; the pull from elsewhere is too great. If I find myself in one meagre corner that, while approaching, I expect too much from, I am left reflecting on my own ineptitude as I leave it behind untrammelled. But even this reflection is a waste of time; still I continue. Why worry about wasting time when time itself is left to waste? My expectations are too great only because my own abilities are left wanting. And still the dust collects, and my feet leave less and less of an imprint, and through a musty window I can see an identical structure and I realise that I cannot touch what is not ultimately mine. I feel that, were I more assiduous, I could push my way into corners I had never even contemplated the existence of. I could shift the dust and press through and leap, buoyed up by the most microscopic force, into my neighbour’s garden. I could look over my shoulder and with that slight turn of the neck I would find myself back home. I could collect experience and leave it there and catalogue it and grow, if only. If only I were not left to skulk in corners I will never know. Their shapes refuse me. I can press in only so far before blood begins to clot in my compressed veins and I once again feel the need to abandon my cause lest I suffer something fatal.

And the personal pronouns jut out and become insults. They are like a wall of knives closing in and give the lie to the whole charade; still I continue.

Releasing pressure, I find that my blood has ceased to flow.