Remember Wittgenstein?

All she is now is a disjointed array of verbalized reconstructions, the unrealized and thus immeasurably frail memory of a series of fantastic events, with each passing thought that follows her name they become even more suppositious, a strange fiction written in irregular acts. The discomfort each thought breathes to the fabric of reality threatens to take it apart, although only solipsistically, but then again that is how we suffer, isn't it? In agonizingly mechanized reactions, we forget above all that we are men and that sometimes the concept of a thing means much more to use than that of a not-thing, the absence outside of thought, what was never even there to begin with because we could only conceive it with the consciousness we would fill it with, these non-events are merely parades of misunderstandings, lack of insight, that no less intensify the perennial disappointment we feel when we as much as look to the memory. We see names that never end because we never learned them properly, and this is a special kind of familiarity that breeds a most uncomfortable nostalgia that borrows deep in our subconscious.

These are the words I could never dare to utter, but desperately wanted you to know. Remember Wittgenstein? "That which cannot be said must be passed over in silence". This is my silence for you; strangers until the bitter end.