I’m not really sure whether I ought to make a contribution to the site. If I were to, I would (possibly) be concerned that perhaps my overwhelming feelings of self-loathing would overflow. I think that this might occur because I would not feel worthy of being published online. I am paralysed with fear and incertitude at the prospect of what could transpire. To make such a bold leap might lift me from my cogitative ennui, but could also inflame my abject desire to carry out an act of self-immolation, or other, even more unspeakable behaviour. I know not whether I should countenance such a risk or possibly risks. It may well be that all this would have taken a very different and infinitely more fortuitous course had the events of that cold autumn afternoon in 1969 not come to pass. How will I ever know whether they truly were the catalyst for what has since unfolded? Or should I say, not unfolded? For to say ‘unfolded’ is to imply an expansiveness entirely inappropriate to my circumstances since that time. When, yesterday, I sent out for the usual provisions, the slightest whisper of an inclination to step outside brushed across my consciousness, but this was quickly swept aside by a thundering psychic blow from that within. From that which masters, and which truly knows. Which knows the risks and crossroads of outside. Which speaks so harshly, yet utters not a sound. Which is ever-present, ever-vigilant. Which protects and yet suffocates, I feel it now it’s here I need it it needs me