Analysis of PULPING STONE

Today I no longer write about myself as I once did as a grasshopper, when I was trying to take the faintest hesitant steps on the ladder of Life. I am well past thirty now. Often I am still seized with the childish, honeyed desire that I should take refuge in the corner of my former nursery from what really hurt me, hiding and playing the games from which Life deliberately kicked me away; for I had to become a civil servant and could not bear the company of liars. I was soon fired!

I often envy the friendly child who simply hands over the matchbox car or the LEGO set of hundreds of thousands to the other child, because he knows that what counts in the game is to be equals, not opponents. The city's heavy fog would be nice to replace with sunshine yet - as a grumpy, nagging bachelor, I'm turning inwards in autumn. The neon lights of the tomb-crypt blot out even the shreds of Reality, until at last it's hard to tell the difference. From dawn till dusk, the click of the clocks blends into the blinding darkness.

Somewhere I sense the heavy shadow of human fate; some people are becoming increasingly listless, like automatons or robot droids, and instead of the tiredly repeated "How am I?" they reply with "I'm fine". I shudder at the knowledge that it seems more and more likely that I will suddenly disappear...