Even now, I look around almost in a sort of despair for anything I know: this page, the light of this room, these words in time and space. Is there a shape to this world? The objects, canceled out, the voice goes dry. In despair, only light. Absence of light. This nothing—the light.
I look around, this moment, and feel despair for all I know and see. The world is solitary, or at least I am, and so it takes the shape of its container. How sad to think we are the world we experience. How beautiful.