Hello. Despite spending well nigh twenty years of my life in relative social isolation, I have never before known loneliness. I have never known what it is like to be helpless, to feel so incredibly worthless when I myself have so much potential. Certainty of mind and action alike have governed my reality to the point of apathetic pragmatism; I was once in control of all I thought and felt. Of course, I no longer am. Or put a clearer way, I am no longer sure exactly of who I am or what is important to me. I am still able to carry out actions efficiently and creatively enough to achieve any desired ends, provided they be strictly material. But the means of which I do so hold no true connection to myself. They are strictly the result of overmuch observation and analysis of things external. I have in this respect become a jester: the fruits of my labors, artistic and academic alike, are so far removed from anything I am familiar with as to have almost no meaning at all, no more worth than if I were tossing stones. I do not feel any emotion but loss, and a whorl of confusion concerning every minute aspect of my own existence. How did this phenomenal train-wreck of mind occur? I do not know. Certainly it is not from isolation exclusively, for the trials of this I have endured almost thus far. Have I overworked myself? Gone far beyond any known intellectual limits and stumbled partway into insanity? Truly I do not know. Does anyone recognize me at all?