She Might Be Dead

My wife died, she didn't say anything, there was no argument that day, she just left. What would a man's diary look like if he was crazy about his wife? I didn't want to write a "story about madness," I wanted to write about madness itself, so this is a diary of ceilings, pipes, mattresses, flowerpots—these are things we see every day that shouldn't have life, but here they do. When I write this, I often wake up at three in the morning and stare at the ceiling of my room. It is 2.8 Meters, standard, but I know that it will be different at three in the morning. This is a diary, and there is only one person's voice from beginning to end, and he is just going on day by day. So please don't expect the ups and downs of traditional novels - there is no climax, no reversal, no unexpected ending, just the ceiling falling three centimeters every day, the repeated short and long rhythms in the water pipes, the eyeballs with upward pupils in the flower pots, and a person who is slowly dissociating.