meanders.

To get lost in this world means looking for le temps perdu while muttering obscenities in Esperanto: "Fragmented and splintered into incomprehensible facets of nothing. As well as this, alongside, comes a sense of complete loss. All suddenly becoming none, it as not. Though awareness persists: the absence of death, of, of, of. Intangible, alright, but when it is yourself, are you not allowed? Of course not, how stupid and infantile that would seem. To take yourself apart, to examine that which isn't, to realize what is of the essential importance. To watch it depart. Is it a route." Bujholej, putinfilaĉo - what in the dickens is this?

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