So much text. So much talking. Stop. Stop it. Stop doing it.
More and more often, I’ve been overcome by the strangest feeling that I’ve gotten it all turned around, by which I mean to say—to state the not-so-obvious—without it I would perish. A moment comes where suddenly everything seems impossibly far and confused, my sense of self derealized and depersonalized, the disorientation so severe I actually believe—and let me tell you that it is an intensely strange instance of belief—that this terrible sense of relatedness to Sorachi’s work implies something that just can’t be, namely that this thing has created me; not me unto it, but now it unto me, where I am nothing more than the matter of some other voice, intruding through the folds of what even now lies there agape, possessing me with histories I should never recognize as my own; inventing me, defining me, directing me until finally every association I can claim as my own is relegated to nothing; forcing me to face the most terrible suspicion of it all, that all of this has just been made up and what’s worse, not made up by me or even for that matter, Sorachi. Though by whom I have no idea. Naw, I’m just kiddin’. Enjoy your walls of text.