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I'm sitting in my room, thinking, reading history essays, listening to the Garden State soundtrack. I live on the top floor and the wind is blowing in; only one of my lights are on and it's busy throwing long shadows across the wall.
I'm the only light that's on right now at 2:10 am.
Nobody gives a damn, I think, Nobody gives a damn, I feel. Lost in the night, the boundary between my skin and the cold air disappears and I am the world and the world is me. Self-less and one. There is no crime, Septimus says. Maybe if you know everyone, maybe the world becomes transparent, but you never will. I'm speaking to you at a party over dinner taking a walk in a cafe speaking online about people. In the end, life is lived alone, I think. You've felt this way before, I know.
Then an email finds its way in my mailbox, and it is two pages full of letters, words, cheering up, two pages full of smiles. Somehow the room lights up, and I am left trying to describe something that can't be described. You know that feeling, I know, and I can't describe it, so I won't.
Like so many other things in the world.
But there it is. You and me, communicating about things that can't be described though personal anecdotes.