Slowly, life recedes with poverty, sloth and disengagement, and those simple pleasures of going out and doing things, seeing things, eating things and so on seem like unimaginable indulgences, as far away from one's life as yacht in St Tropez.

While others do, I observe, but also barely even that. I exist like a jellyfish, like lichen, like a cloud.

I hold a moment up and gaze inside, turn it around and view the emptiness from all angles.

This is the dirty secret of my life.