We are in motion together - we move through time as though through water - indistinct blurs smeared across an electronic horizon - nothing more than fragments of dust, of moments - nothing more than a momentary desire which burns and burns and will not be satiated.
I am compelled to set the ball spinning even though I will never catch it. Even though it slices through my lungs and I cannot breath each time I fail to hold it in my mouth. Even though it must delight the prison guard to observe my suffering. Even though I become a slave to an inanimate construct which nevertheless seems constantly to be laughing in my face as I send it around yet one more time, and one more time, and then once more again. Is it possible this wild abandon is a kind of joy?
If it is, then to experience joy is to suffer greatly.