Nabokov likens life to a sliver of light between two infinite darknesses, like a door cracked in time. As I proceed toward a quarter of a century in my present form, the inertia of waiting for some better idea of who I am and what I ought to be doing has become stifling. every idea i’ve ever had is backed up inside of me, denying the laws of physics, expanding and imploding all at once. I always thought that being debilitatingly self-conscious was somehow more authentic, more admirable than being a person who knows (or thinks) they’re special, that their points are valid, and that people care about their thoughts, ideas, or them. It has been brought to my attention that many of those people are just faking this admirably, secretly just as uncertainly as you or I. As my deceased christian soul-brother TS Eliot wrote, “it is impossible to say just what i mean!” and finally preparing to accept this, i hereby give up trying so hard not to try. This is the last update on my own inner mechanisms, promise. Next is a review of “if on a winter’s night a traveler” by italo calvino.