Nothing in my hands, nothing in my pockets, I write to safeguard myself from madness, from the irrationality (or is it the rationality?) of life and its inescapable conditions. This, by no means, constitutes a form of salvation, not even an aspiration for one. Writing saves nobody. They don’t even justify. For good or bad, writing is just a necessary habit, the daily evidence of an uncalled for passing. I’m not dead yet. Nulla dies sine linea.