he looked around. he saw quite nothing interesting. everything was bleak, the skies grey, the days black, nights blank with omission, storms full of sorrow, clouds full of fear. he wished to leave. churlish prattle filled the melancholy space like a green box in a huge forgotten warehouse. there may have been nothing, but there was so much at the same time. nothing. there wasn’t anything. in most of it, he saw himself. he hesitated to think about anything, thoughts became thick and pasty here. they solidified into obstacles and shackles and weights, red and signless, tempting and horrid and repelling and repugnant. he flung himself into the sky. there was no love, no happiness, no sunshine, there was no santa claus. he cried as he started over on a piece on a piano with one key.