There are no words, no verses, no rhymes with which I can relate to the man that writes this in a manner that is as adequate as to admit them to myself in thought, for neither in speech nor writing have I yet uncovered a way to introduce me to myself such that it neither betrays me nor defeats the purpose. I am not me; I am not the hand that writes this nor the eyes that see. I am not my name, my tribe, nor my sanctuary. I am not my thought nor deed, nor am I my music, my poetry. Who it is that I am, then, I have yet to uncover, and the only thing that I do know is that I know nothing, I am nothing, I am nothing.
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