more than awareness of life, was the actual process of life inside me.

And living my “bad,” I lived the other side of something I couldn’t even manage to want or attempt.

I had superimposed upon the inextricable part of myself,

No. I immediately figure that the hardest thing my vanity will have to face is the judgment of myself:

Everything here is the elegant, ironic, and witty replica of a life that never existed anywhere: my house is a merely artistic creation. Everything here actually refers to a life that wouldn’t suit me if it were real.

I was the image of what I was not,

Only later would I understand: what seems like a lack of meaning — that’s the meaning. Every moment of “lack of meaning” is precisely the frightening certainty that that’s exactly what it means, and that not only can I not reach it, I don’t want to because I have no guarantees.

but the natural light of whatever exists, and it is that natural light that terrorizes me. Though I know that the horror — I am the horror in the face of things.

damnation.