Before starting Act II, I wrote one more little occasional piece, which I’ll say more about closer to the occasion. Then I charged into Act II at full speed, without even trying to slow down. I had been a little afraid of the beginning, but needlessly—it is already little more than a faint shape somewhere behind me.

As has happened before, as the work progresses, further meanings and connections between themes and characters reveal themselves to me. And further discoveries reveal themselves beyond the work itself, chiefly in the form of reading that leads me from one book to the next. Though not only reading—also memories. Bits and scraps of memory that suddenly emerge, rise to the surface, and arrange themselves into meaningful patterns. It is truly difficult to maintain the rational (?) conviction that there is no deeper order of things.

I will not escape. However much I resist, however much I hide from myself, scorn and ridicule, seek proofs of nonexistence—I will not escape. So it seems. Besides, running away has begun to weary me. Very well, then: I turn around and listen. Still with childish defiance and unassuaged resentment rather than open humility—but there is no escaping that either.