Which great Scottish writers are we indebted to for the following substantially original observations?
(Total: 5, unheard-of. 3, excellent. 1, above average. 0, poor.)

1. Who on earth am I? Isn't that the greatest puzzle? Might it in fact even be possible that I am really somebody else? Yes. Yes, of course. But who? Who exactly?

2. So. Falling asleep, again and again. Where are we now? What? And yet again. What? Where are we? Here? Then no more questions. Absolutely no more of them. No. Never.

3. Something familiarly unknown to us is doing we don't even remotely know what - almost certainly without the slightest intention involved, and yet somehow to my unique self in particular. Isn't it something like that?

4. What am I actually doing? Well, I suppose I don't really have all that much more sense of what I am trying to do, if any, than that of being more or less forever engaged in some sort of bizarre and surely quite unnecessary struggle to get down in words, or into the publicly communicated realm somehow - what should we call it? - material that is well worth getting out there. Presumably because, in however unfathomable a way, it makes something else of certain value, certainly not of no value, blossom out further into the explicit world. You know? Yes. Roughly that kind of pleasing idea anyway, quite possibly to some extent at least delusional.
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