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I don´t know how to feel or think or love.
I´m a character in a novel as yet unwritten, hovering in the air
and undone before I've even existed, amongst the dreams of
someone who never quite managed to breathe live into me.

I'm always thinking, always feeling, but my thoughts lack all 
reason, my emotions all feeling.
I'm falling through a trapdoor, through infinite space...
in a directionless, empty fall. My soul is a black maelstrom, 
a great madness spinning about a vacuum, the swirling of a vast 
ocean around a hole in the void, and in the waters, more like
whirlwinds than waters, float images of all I ever saw or heard
in the world: houses, faces, books, boxes, snatches of music and
fragments of voices, all caught up in a sinister, bottomless whirlpool.

And I, I myself, am the centre that exists only because the gravity 
of the abyss demands it, I am the nothing around wich all this
spins, I exist so that it can spin, I am the centre that exist only 
because every circle has one.

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