I came here to write, not recalling I'd come here before, to work my way out and through one very specific subject, one very specific person, one very specific amalgam of damages.  A golem of self-loathing, the noumenal coalescence of self-destruction.  For me, that's saying something.  To read those words from nigh on three years gone left no heartstrings unplucked.

I'll leave them to be.  They're part of history, if not my history than at least some history, the backstory of a boy who dies each night in the meeting of skull and pillow and awakes anew in the harsh light of day which knows curtains - tuille, cha! - to be no boundary.

It is my task now to explore the meaning of it.  Not that past, but all pasts, all futures, every conceivable it.  From Socrates and his playing dumb to the new crop of thinkers-on-existence, each with their own flavor of playing smart.  All, that is to say, of the knowledge known but unquantifiable, unfalsifiable, untested, subjective.

My starting point:  Immanuel Kant had his head up his ass, Jeremy Bentham was out of touch with the world, Heidegger is incomprehensible no matter the man's nous who claims otherwise.  And from there, onward.