I had titled the piece Jesus Incognito. Nothing survives from this work. I wrote it in a pained, anxiety-fueled sadness.
I was a kid who thought he could write, but then I reread it and hated it and hated the reasons for even writing it in the first place. The origin was mixed and imperfect. It was a search for meaning where I hadn’t even begun a search for meaning. The book was too much fiction and not enough reality and even the structuring and wording I couldn’t stomach very much.
— And I deleted it the same year. —