There is a blank sheet of paper on my desk. Waiting. Staring back at me with blind eyes. Waiting for a word, a phrase, a plan. I had this thought a moment ago, under the shower: what was your best holiday? Did you ever go to the airport without a sense of destination, without a ticket in your pocket, your passport, and the latest copy of a LP guide? Would you rather, on arrival, run like a headless chicken or walk straight to the bus terminal as if you had always known where it was? And here you are, in the middle of the grandest voyage of all, without a plan, a guide, a sense of direction. Lost. Next to the sheet of paper is a vial. A small glass vial with no label, a one way ticket to oblivion. And between the endless space of these two blanks, there is you. You, me, and I. With your endless questions and retorts. Yesterday, a part of me died (see my earlier thread, if you are interested). Probably the best part of me died yesterday. Leaving me in want of a plan. Where will you carry what is left? We all die. That is a certitude. The only certitude in life. What an oxymoron! In the end, in the long run, in the very long run, nothing matters. Nothing at all. We are not wired to understand certain things, just like our eyes are incapable of seeing in the IR or the UV. And yet, amidsts this blindness, all I see is her.