I sit down at my desk and for another hour
record in my composition book everything I have been thinking.
I smile to myself as I see on paper what
I thought last night before I dozed off at midnight.
I am reminded of a story about Sartre coming out
of his study one day and recognizing that he was
condemned to the perpetual struggle of being caused to see
himself as an object from the view of another consciousness.
A working title, I think, and record in the white
window of the composition book the words No Way Out.
My barren life has become a hell with no exit.
Paraphrases from the novel Zuckerman Unbound by Philip Roth.