I don’t know what I want anymore; life is a confusing mess. I don’t even know if I am thinking right at this precise moment. Everything seems to be everywhere at once, nothing belongs at where it ought to belong. I think this essay that I’m presently writing has gone so far off its initial course, its authentic course, that it can really be considered as no more than an authentic cluster of verbiage. I don’t even understand what I’m writing. Outside, my neighbours are quarreling over the parking spaces in front of their houses. Can you believe that? For an entire hour, they have been bickering about who gets the space. So trivial are such things. Yet, strangely, I am drawn to the contents of their arguments. They probably make very little sense. But I suppose that what life consists mostly of, even though we don’t know it: nonsense. Life is a pool of nonsense and whatever we find entertaining, worthwhile, we take as the truth and live by it.