Sunday, December 8, 2013


I am tired of writing.  I am tired of this.  Hell isn’t other people, or burning in eternal torment.  Hell is nothing.  No contact, no stimulation, no interaction with the world.  Hell is being trapped in a box.  Hell is something I’ve designed for myself, carefully and with all the resources I could.

The third book Jim put in the box was lying underneath the Sartre book.  Descartes’ Meditations on First Philosophy.  I had read this years ago.  I still remember cogito ergo sum.  I think therefore I am.  I can’t think here anymore, too much despair.  Does that mean I am not?

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