Leaving Montreal, it's getting harder and harder. I've grown up roots here; they're thin and at the surface, but they are there. Going East, to the land of nowhere is not going closer to the civilization; on the contrary. I'm preparing for a reclusion for which I'm not sure I have the backbone. I became short-sighted all these years of city life. We'll see.

All this time I convinced myself I needed people to be happy! Now I'm trying to do the opposite and say that books alone might suffice, while I know, deep inside, that books have always been an experiential enhancement to me, not a way of being. Having such subjective ties with the act of reading, I need a bedrock on which, through reading, to build those surrogate experiences into something meaningful. I don't feel that leaving for a God forsaken land will allow me to do that. I'm still weighing alternatives, which for the moment are few.

What about nature, one might say? I dread the vastness of it around there. It makes its inaccessibility even more unbearable to me.