Your life is like a spaceship with no recognizable components, no rivets or bolts, no entry points, now way to take it apart. It is very shiny and it has no discernible flaws. Or you could somehow smash it into smaller pieces, there would certainly be no way to put it back together again. It simply is.

At no time while living are you unaware that you live a life of complete obsession, of a stretching of the mind and body of a yourself to the point of, we assume, near madness.

But you are a different sort of madman., one in full control of your tools, one who instead of teetering on the edge of this precipice or that, seems to be heading ever-inward, into the depths of memory and the relentless conjuring of a certain time and place that evokes utmost order despite its mayhem.

It's complicated, but there are pleasures everywhere, but there is also a very quiet but very sturdy and constant tragic undercurrent that concerns a people who are completely lost and only want some sort of direction or purpose or sense of community, because who would live if not for a want of connection and thus of love?