Do you ever get that feeling that everything you’re doing is a hopeless waste of time? You’re throwing on a faint, feigned cloak of confidence, but suddenly it slips away and this solitary serf has no clothes.
All of the things you’ve read, and which you’ve convinced yourself are for you, suddenly appear irrelevant, for there is no special someone around to take you as you; to get to know the person those books have helped you become. And if there is indeed no one, then what is the point at all?
You are but another victim of a Great Exhibition: a foolish wishpig, a plasticine show-monkey, a loner.
Truly. For whom are you reading?
For whom am I writing?