I would like to write, but writing for one's self and that self only is a burden; writing for others feels like an evil. Where's the third term? Who can [we] write if not for the self or for the others? The machine - or the angel. A spherical presence that is not inside or outside of that window from which you, rather romantically and certainly embarrassingly, think you'd gaze once in a while whilst writing, not filling, but writing - writing with a capital W - and oh! you find yourself reverting, out of habit, to the comfort of the passive 'you', in fear of invoking the 'I' that is much too close to comfort. Much too close, and yet there is the incessant need to confess and bore through all the reasons for all the imagined wrong-doings that took place nowhere in particular, at a time that is nowhere in particular - keep imagining, I say to myself, or we'll never imagine a place for the heart, finally.