——There is a generic other person who is  simply a straw man I have constructed for purposes of comparison with myself, and the outfits I dress this straw man in show how variously he serves my main purpose. It is to verify that I am different, radically different from everyone else.  I distinguish myself from others in a continuous process of comparison with the appearances and encounters of this other person. This representative generic person, who may be referred to often in the plural as “other people”–sloppy as that is, sometimes loftily meaning all of humanity, or more often just lassoing a subgroup, consisting of those whom I have shunted into that group, because of their repeated actions that infuriated me, or even I may be aiming the full force of my categorisation on only one other person, who has managed to represent an uncommonly versatile devil. In any case, throughout this process,  I strive to exist with that unique sense of myself, that I have always lived with, intact. For you see, the sense of self is not derived, but there from the start; and we start in a fog, out at sea, and one needs to be able to identify the . . . foghorn. To create a semblance of a storyline . . . Oh, I know someone understands me perfectly in this kind of speaking, and therewith,  for them I speak at all.  I know that not all people strive to disassociate themselves from humanity. When I can ask this, will I get anything but blank stares?  Can it be intrepid shyness, or a weird process of learning of any type?  Oh, of course it is imaginable, everyone is in the position, walking on solid ground, to do the incredible, to have the constant idea that they only are one person, backed up in the very first second,  verifiable by so many and various means, say seeing their shadow on the sidewalk, facing the fact of their habitation in a body long experienced, lived in, jettisoned to far shores of sadness and ecstacy, etc.  It might frequently occur to each of us, and presto, what is amazing is how available and various are the techniques we can come up with–to convince ourselves, each of us, how different we are. So to classify the rest of humanity, each of us, having attained a rare immortal awareness, must provide them, the  others, with generic traits and supply them with common assumptions which they use to move about in the world–already claimed by us! That is what I say to myself, in my suit of amour, buttressed against false humanity.  I have claimed the world, that I myself, quite repeatedly, am so stunningly aware of, the mystery that enwraps me, and brightly appears to me in all successive, puzzling daylights, so I do not need stilts and beliefs and savage appetites, but I am a rarity unknown to the others. It seems almost by definition do I move in an exclusive setting that only I understand, or only I see that I can’t understand because . . . who can understand existence? You would think they all drank, on separate occasions, from the same lethal fountain–those who pretend to understand this world. Well, let’s say individually people operate by maintaining a temporary balance, righting their own ship, with cover-ups and lots of excuses, making time at the last minute, fudging the story just as they were about to be turned in, discovered for their secret self, and noticed as being . . . scared to death, unfit to live in the community they have ascribed for all the others. It is too difficult! The very idea of life is implausible, perhaps, for most people. To pivot on a screen, like a bug. See here I am again, trying to pull you towards me, as if I need a pillow to rest my stranded self. What is funny is that it can very well appear to many that it is a crime against the rest, somehow, to act confessedly like a odd, sorry individual. With all your ideas. Motives are in disarray. It appears to me that others are operating on the strength of delusional principles that they somehow incorporated into such depth in their being that . . .in order for them, these people and their principles, to emerge in the daylight, with the shadows (to keep the semblance going) reality must change, once again. Not so bad a conclusion for this parenthesis, I guess–I have seen it happen before.