In its early pages it said, “Once there was a lonely person.” It might have gone on to say, “And isn’t it wonderful? That lonely person met another lonely person and now neither is lonely.” By declining to go there, the story now begins asking a more profound question: “What if a lonely person can find no way out of her loneliness?” This is where,

I was living in a crummy basement apartment, having just left my marriage and the suffocating feeling of leading a life that was not my own. I couldn’t understand how it had come to that.

What am I doing? Why am I doing this? Who am I? Once, toward the end of the unfinished narrative, a footnote read: It should have been me, not her.

What I’m saying is this: 1. You are born with this weird interiority that no one else can see. 2. You can’t see it either at first. But if you run enough experiments you get a sense of how that inner space behaves. In particular, you can figure out which types of people can fuse with your interiority and expand it. 3. You will not be able to explai