“i” feel like everything I have ever done, do or plan to do, has been or is, for someone else.
“i” just do not know “WHO” this is and not knowing, is really starting to piss “me” off.
It is not a matter of not knowing “self”, it is a matter of not knowing the “Lives” soliciting service.
It is as though; no matter what chapter “i” write, it is written for another.
If it were up to “me”, every “body” would be OK and “i” would be at the beach or up in the mountains.
James the Reluctant Messenger