Who am I?
Where to start, what to give out?.. There's a flush of sadness and gloom bedded into the description of oneself, an improvisation harked together from a jumble of thoughts, ideas, impressions, turmoils and quietudes, hear-says and reports, all around impoverished statements, like rambling voices lacking, from which is distilled a Leitmotiv, a supra-egotic signature that entails origin and destiny of a living being in its most authentic and yet indefinable, elusive, if not even furtive denominator... like the wind, eternal, fleeting, ubiqitous yet unsubstantial... Identity which like a weed flower rocks dainty in exhibit and sturdy in resilience from the debris of a lichen-clad withered and forgotten tomb.... Now perhaps imagine life, somehow sidetracked to the periphery of life embraced ordinarily, bustling and ever-effacing in the routine mechanical drumbeats of genic and societal infrastructure. Close by facing this spatial blandness,where the horizon and the relative axis of one...