There is worse that a blurred mess, Mr Lost. You could have the sharp clarity of thought about your life AND not retain your composure. Not that I have achieved such a feat, mind: I ache about a mess I have yet to see clearly. Wine notwithstanding, I seem to be searching for a meaning forever escaping me, perhaps my rightful place in the life I lead, or even a different life altogether. Is it possible to long for something the existence of which one is not sure about?

Something, or someone... Are you real? I know you exist, but whose reality do you belong to? Don't allow me to create you from scratch, or I'll just mould my fantasy of you on my deepest desires. Self-feeding is delusional cannibalism.

Emma x