What is life? Unfortunately, I have the feeling we'll never know the answer to that question. More unfortunate, still, I'm feeling that there's no point to the question or to the person behind this keyboard typing. This feeling usually comes when I'm with the family. I want to end it all and be done with it despite the world's beauty or the lack of.

But there are some good things about being here: I recede into myself because there's nowhere else to go, so I begin to see them, so I begin to write them and the pointless forms that I must impart onto the page pour out again and again and again. This is all I can ever do with my life: hope that there can be some purpose or meaning of me through this act by which I attempt to imprint myself upon humanity.