The click click of his typewriter filled the otherwise hollow silence of his abode. Click clack clack. Built upon his concepts of self and society he constructed a landscape of meaning to disrupt the baron reality that was explicit as his surroundings.

'Click clack... another senseless design. There was little for him to sound off to. Besides the echo of meaning... there was little. It's not really that there was nothing as at all. It felt meaningless.

Where upon the idea of man does the writer find his meaning? Somehow the idea that meaning was implict offended him. He sought something greater, something solid. It should have a decisive impact, he decided. There should be more to wandering through varied context than strict interpretation with a weakness for perception.

It seemed to him like every time that he found an explicit meaning to the things he wrote, it vanished easily. Like every drip of meaning he could squeeze from his experieinces relied upon his painfully faulty sense of self. Why shouldn't he find the definite in his search for meaning?

'Gosh', he thought, 'Why is it that the solution to the problems I face seems to elude me?'

'Not so much in my solutions as it is in their finality. The solutions are ever present. When I attack myself to resolve my problems, I find reasons for being and guilt to assume.'

'I remain haunted. My dreams are full of my failures. Despite my best attempts to exorcise my humanity by way of logic, I am still a man possessed. If anything I feel more stricken daily by my weakness and reason remains my mistress and my accomplice in misery.'

His eyes felt like glass. His breath was cold and his chest shuddered to move. Misery motivated him, he felt compelled to break free, to use his lansdcape for an outlet only of his impulses. There was no hope of relief through this land. At best he could find benediction in his shame.

He sobbed quietly to himself. He thought perhaps he could find solace in another. He sought silence and in it some kind of salvation. Cruelly, he thought humanity offered in it a solution to his pain, but really it's self-indulgence was only the manifestation of the concept of his potential for humanity in the illusions of another.

He sought recognition through a broken lens. His life would never have true meaning. The more he thought he knew, the more he would isolate himself. Trapped in the broken world of decided meaning, he would continue to ache always for a solution.