There is too much nuance in a person’s life, even a short life, for that life to be put into words with any kind of sufficiency. Which isn’t to say one shouldn’t try.

And that the objectivity and completeness I’m imagining would require, for its expression, an almost impossible duration of time; too long, anyway, for the person doing the writing to finish it before they themselves had died.

Let’s just say that I don’t think that I can.

Well, maybe someone can, I don’t like to sound so absolute.

Which is to say it will likely be mainly about what I think about me, because no one can write about themself with objectivity, or give an account of themself that is complete enough to be considered ‘true’.

Instead this book will likely be mainly about me.

He makes himself known to me only at certain times, and I can never anticipate when those times will be.

There is a character named Krebs who lives in his mother’s basement, but I’m not sure who he is, or if I’m going to say anything more about him.

Meaning, this isn’t going to be the kind of book where very much action and drama transpire, even if there is a little of those things, at times.

There won’t be much of a story in this book, I may as well tell you that up front.