Not because I know how, but because otherwise thoughts start scratching from the inside, like mice inside my skull. It’s not a hobby; it’s a form of coexistence between my anabolism and my own catabolism.
Many people dislike what I write.
And that I write.
And how I write.
And—especially—why I write.
Three questions to which I have one answer: because I crushed a bottle of ink, it spilled all over, and now I have to dip my finger (surely not a quill!) into this puddle and write until it dries.
Some people think I’ve tangled up science, philosophy, religion, and some sort of esoterica.
My dears.
To understand my scribblings, you just need to know this:
there is no science in my books.
Nor philosophy.
Nor religion.
Nor esoterica.
There are un-thoughts.
There are non-sciences.
And—most importantly—there is a whole lot of non-philosophy in here too.
If you think it’s science—that’s just an approximation error of the Lagrange interpolating polynomial through a prism of cognac distillate.
If you think it’s philosophy—it’s merely the Limit of the Boundary along which a hungover cockroach crawls in search of the Boundary of the Limit. By the way, I don't drink, so I can only invent the thoughts of this very cockroach.
If you hallucinate religion—it means you’ve simply forgotten that a midnight sunrise is also delirium, but a beautiful one.
If it’s esoterica—you’re looking for the border between "here" and "there" in the wrong place, because it doesn’t exist anyway until someone looks at it.
So read me as a description of a midnight sunrise (or a high-noon sunset).
Delirium is just delirium.
But I love to write.
The rest is a matter of taste.
And everyone’s taste is ruined in its own unique way.