Simon sat on the stony fence and looked around him. The birds had finished their meals and were weighing down the branches of the ash, and Simon could only think of nothing. His antipathy to the exterior as presented to him was really beginning to burn, and egoism was no salvation without proof. Nietzche wrestled with Berkely, and of course Nitzche won because he was righteously selfish, and Berkely was just righteous. Simon tried to refute it thus as Ben Johnson had once done but it occurred to him the pain in his foot could also have been a projection of his own solitary reality on a narcissistic canvas. The projections weren’t bad at times, the pseudo nurse who bandaged his quasi foot appeared to project very nicely. If the world was a project of Simon’s imagination then he was very talented indeed to project all this, but the cruel irony was there was absolutely no one to share it with. Damn Nietzsche and damn those fat bastard birds.
He began to think he was hungry, but was unable to think he was full. There were limits to his imagination.