There was a man I know who used to write a lot. He wrote some rather tragic tasting humor for those who know better than to laugh out loud. He also wrote some of the strangest sounding poetry this side of the International Line of Sobriety. In between all these things he wrote almost completely true stories based on his own wide and varied experiences in Big Silly Business.
But that’s when he had his muse. Then he lost his muse. He went silent for a very long time. He hated his own silence. But there was nothing he could do about it. So he simply worked night and day on remaining silent until he perfected it almost to the point of nonexistence.
He became a nonexistentialist. Perhaps one of the very first.
Sometimes, if you’re in his neighborhood, you can hold your breath so that even the uncontrollable action of your lungs won’t disturb the still air of nothingness and you can almost hear the sadness crawling by your feet. But most people can’t.