Solipsism Again 2

Solutions: I will march up the hill and survey the city below. I will consume cheap palliatives. I will investigate tawdry and uninteresting mysteries. I will draw empty city streets. Above all I must find courage from somewhere, courage enough to somehow live on, dragging my cadaver through whirlwinds and roundabouts of trouble. The blues fall flat and reach my ears no longer. The girls don't talk to me. All communication comes rigidly and departs. I am listening to symphonies but there is some barrier between them and me. I want money and not work, romance and not politics. I give five percent to sex and ninety-five to love. I will go to the final boundary and transgress it for that love. I will throw myself repeatedly into fires. I will be immolated and transfigured, lying generously from an open heart, and telling myself compulsively that nothing remains.
I felt free, I felt alive. I walked down the street and felt the wind in my face. I thought, "I am intact, I am whole". It was a tiny, strange triumph which was soon subsumed into the leaden ocean of time, that shifted around it, that pulled me with it, till again I was lost at the centre.

Back to solipsism. The solipsist, that selfish bastard, sees only the grim fairground of circumstance, the dance of phenomena, pass before his grotesquely all-perceiving eyes; he himself is the centre, the still centre and axis of the world. Still, did I say? No; the eye of this storm is turbulent, it quakes and seethes, it is infected with an unseemly sickness which can never find rest. It quickens and slows like a heartbeat, it pulls up and down on the marionette-like form of the solipsiser, jerking him into motion; it besets him with toothache-like pain, but a toothache of the heart, a wormlike pain that quietly eats at him, which, when he puts his head on a pillow and shuts his eyes in the dark, comes alive in him and begins monstrously to reign in him, welling up from his centre to fill his head with voices, not actually heard or hallucinated, but, almost worse, merely rehearsed or conjectured, ridiculously repeated like stock phrases, as though the emotions were bad actors or incompetent comedians, insisting on playing to the end their tormenting routines.
This is the nameless pain that eats like a worm at the heart of man.