I am reading Haruki Murakami's The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, which may turn out to be the finest and deepest novel I have ever read.
It was suggested to me by a friend who is at least my intellectual equal.
I am currently living in a basement.
I am not tired, although it is late.
I am not afraid, although it is dark.
I have not raised my voice in anger for many months.
I am far from the northern lights.
Despite the myriad rhythms of my life, I am waiting for something.