I am alone on my bed: the world
is somewhere outside, but I’m
not part of it – don’t want to be
part of it in any sense.
That’s my condition, without
contrition – that’s my life. But
then I think: the branch cannot
be alive unless attached to the
tree.
I dread that world and every bit
of it, yet maybe some are good
and kind: that really would
improve my mind.
I lie on my bed, but am not
alone, the world is here and
I am part of it in every sense.

It has to be: it is our human
condition.