There is a deep and disconsolate desolation I feel at times, a profound and overwhelming sense of futility and pointlessness that is impermeable to light and is also and quite equally unassailable by any rationale of emotional transience, by appeals to the generally temporary nature of such a darkening and empty inundation. I doubt very much whether this feeling is unique to me or my life. There is some sense in which such an experience of hollow melancholy is an inevitability for any sentient being equipped with intellect enough to not only simply exist within all the chaos and noise of seeking to simply continue to exist in this quite dramatically (and some would say catastrophically) impersonal and largely uncaring world. To live a double life of existence and self-conscious awareness of that existence is to be quite substantively imprisoned within a prefabricated labyrinth of sorrows that knowledge and language, if not also culture and technology, always and already predispose us towards. This may be the source of “ignorance is bliss”, no doubt but knowledge always, always comes at a cost and that cost is invariably the happiness of not knowing just how cruel the world can so often be and of being entirely blindsided when the shit really does, as it invariably and inevitably, eventually must, hit the fan.