I’ve become obsessed with writers, most of whom are ironically dead, who expressed onto pages a similar dissatisfaction with the world, who had the same questions burning in their mind about life..  Writers who turned emotions into metaphors that could speak to me on a level no one else could..  I never feel loneliness in its entirety by diving into books.  Any chain of words that I can relate with drives me into this illusionary world that separates me from others, those simple minded souls that don’t get the fantastic complexities of passion, of adventure, of questioning authority on the same level..  An excitement is felt so profoundly to know that someone out there at some point felt the same way I do..  Yet, that excitement is so short lived because I have no one, in the flesh, to share myself with in the extent I wish I could.  I find myself wandering in bookstores for hours, getting lost in the midst of my ‘friends’, because all the others look at me and never, ever understand.