My mind races. Vulgar thoughts and jagged emotions flood through me. Swaying wildly and throbbing is this head bubbling and red. A sinister feeling of gloom forebodes within. Voices taunting from inside and outside alike – demons prattling on and on. Images and symbols floating in ethereal air. The selfing process is excruciating. Although the GEB braid is woven from it, the vortex of tangling the knower with what is known tightens its grip and suffocates itself. What is to become of me, but a few satiated worms and ultimate void? Do I dare to wish for anything? How have I allowed myself to forget all that I have learned? It is all too easy for the fickle mind and its withering memory traces to wax and wane. Do I dare to even hope for the fulfillment of a perceived destiny? The beast which hounds my wounded wildebeest on the prairies is not a solitary hunter, but moves in packs and prides. Afraid to venture on too lonely a path, this defenseless grass eater hunkers down and weeps. There are naught but dogs to eat or fangless critters to be eaten in this miserable dominion. We must surely have fallen, for how else is it that our loftier sensibilities are so alienated in this hopeless place? Does it not astound you that all people desire to be good, yet cannot overcome the evil in them? What kind of wicked spell is this, conjured up by the icy flames of Hades, to constrict us the more so we struggle against it? I must free myself from the trap of ranging with wolves, earth-born and star-bound that I am. The greatest error of all would be to mistake myself for what I am not. It is not in my nature to prey upon the weak, or to exalt myself upon the sheep. And for that I am bound to reside in caves, seeking the safety of impenetrable terrain. How am I to live the double life, if one half of it requires descending into the pit to make pleasant company with snakes and scorpions? Is there no eagle to whisk me away and deposit me on my lonely mountain top? I used to believe that a radiant countenance could tame the hardest of stony hearts. I am now more inclined to believe that they are actually shells, which, like those that encase fertile eggs, must be broken from the inside out. In the meantime, I cannot reckon on my fate for much longer. I have straddled too many fences for too long and am in desperate need for a decisive move. If it is my lot to dwell in shadowy back alleys, I should not pretend that it is otherwise. If I cannot tolerate my lack of adjustment to a particular milieu, why tarry there in futility? A wise farmer, in learning of the sterility of a piece of land, does not vainly continue on planting season after season, to be met with barren desert and arid emptiness time and time again, but rather moves quickly and unhesitatingly to seek out the profitable plots, which are receptive of his goodwill and tending hands and where his efforts will bear fruit and bring greenery and bounty to the world.