You profess to have reasons for things, to be a set of propositional attitudes on the way to consistency, if only the ground didn't keep shifting, when really it is all a made up out of affinities, which are feelings, desires, celebrations in anticipation of yourself. You love the world as the place of deferred reunions, call it love, this odd searching through the grandly slow exploding chaos of things for the heart, the reversal of the exile you payed into, the unavowable egoism provisionally suspended. It made perfect sense in feeling but came out silly, no other word for it, endlessly grotesquely silly, your projects, and you had to pull up short, straighten your back and try to look adult, a game that forgot itself and became this random history that you keep on trying to explain, without words or breath, the one who falls and rises each time from sleep, with every new how and what do you know.