He feels that I am as complicated as it gets. Me? Complicated? I asked him, surprised. I am an open book. An open book with blank pages, unlined and unmarked.
‘That’s what makes you complicated’, he said.
So, for his benefit, I shall bullet-point all that is there to say about me.
• I am but a dust-speck on this planet.
• I live an inconsequential existence only to die purposelessly someday.
• I am still searching for a reason.
That is the only thing significant about me. The only thing worth mentioning.