She must be miserly with her pleasures and trifles, he thought. Ungrateful Tending to her sweet treats and idleness instead of sowing her wheat. There are no beginnings. Nothing happens while you live. The scenery changes, people come in and go out, that’s all. There are no beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition. A very large number of them pass before you wake, and still you are alone. The wilderness. The real wilderness, The nakedness of time. Now, I was not yet a nihilist. I had hope, even trepidation at times. But I had been afraid of this in my heart, a terrified type of superstition. Perhaps that was why I was writing now. I was trying to put my fears and hopes down. We can choose our direction and destinations, and some do. And some do not. The path we choose seems correct for a while, standing still on a trail like a fluttering leaf.