"I don't know how to feel or think or love. I'm a character in a novel as yet
unwritten, hovering in the air and undone before I've even existed, amongst
the dreams of someone who never quite managed to breathe life into me. I'm
always thinking, always feeling, but my thoughts lack all reason, my emotions
all feeling. I'm falling through a trapdoor, through infinite space . . In a
directionless, empty fall. My soul is a black maelstrom, a great madness
spinning about a vacuum, the swirling of a vast ocean around a hole in the
void, and in the waters, more like whirlwinds than waters, float images of all
I ever saw or heard in the world: houses, faces, books, boxes, snatches of
music and fragments of voices, all caught up in a sinister, bottomless
whirlpool. And I, I myself, am the centre that exists only because the
geometry of the abyss demands it; I am the nothing around which all this
spins, I exist so that it can spin, I am the centre that exists only because every
circle has one."

I have never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. My only real concern has been my inner self. Just, Who am i?