The tearful world cannot bind me to its sorrow. The noisy-i, that entrains me toward a never-arriving place somewhere there, is not me. Do I make it to project my mind? Its wheels clack as they wear down the way-rails of many trips, and do not stop, and they seem a part of my form and goings, but I cannot say what their substance is. They relate only thread-barely to what is happening, outside and in, from one moment to another. What they are and what turns them is something I cannot say, and as soon as I put my finger on it, it's gone.
— Gabriel Fenteany, December 14, 2015
