The basment downstairs had no windows, the rooms were all empty, cobb webbs fiolled the corners. the floor was a checker green and white pattern, with scrapes fading. down here all by myself, reminicing in my father's words, of his torn pages, mad scribbling. he seemed beyond himself he had written " I am stil and silent on the outside, inside im bursting like a a fountian". his writting had changed my life along witht the books i read felt beyond the current situations. I felt liberated from what had been expected of me. I felt i was walking living art. the fact i survived it all. i had gone to far in obsesion. But even i know it is best to go to the end of it, then to see what it all means. you will always doubt,  and be doubted. It is a giant escape, escape from the constant routine of the analystic mind, constant excravation of detail. life is a one color but as you lick of the wrappers, it diversify's. if you cannot understand it read between the lines, define every word, in sybology and orignal meaning. and at the end of that you will not know what to think.. It seems the more i read, the more i comprehended, the less i know the less  i understand.  I had found the first book he had ever writtten it was called the good book, the second was called the bad book. In the bad book it was purely lost, it had no structure, no grammer, no editing. he had written disconected from himself, throught the hourglass. he had written many things about my mother many of which were hard to swallow.