Now. There are certain things a lonely man, a sad man, a man whose being the promise of hope is being slowly sucked out, should be allowed to do. Yet, he somehow gravitates to that, reading books that make him sadder, not about himself but at the irony and the strange overpowering nature of the world around. And he has the eternal company of Kafka.

No, he does not, as Kafka says, cannot force himself to use drugs to cheat on his loneliness — it is all that he has. He wanders along pathless lands and meets nobody, when there is nowhere to go.

And there is this meaningless dreams and meaningless daydreams, and meaningless awakedness.

There is this stubborn stupidity as well, which refuses to let go. It makes the days do round and round, till the nights and days look the same.

Yet, in the random cruel world he is, he sees a crucible of  joy, indestructible, which seduces and tyrannises him. He refuses to let go of the pleasure.

Maybe this is how man goes blind. Or he goes mad. Or both.

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