This is a glob within a glob. As such, it is numberless:
I am scattered, so dispersed, I am a thousand seeds thrown down and left to thirst. I call myself a poet, though I write no poetry. I have, in fact, nothing to call myself. Not a single name adheres to me—again with the nameless, I know, but in some odd way, it remains the salient fact of my life, or myself (is there a difference?)—nameless, label-less, utterly obscure and unattached, dispersed, words thrown to the wind dandelion-like, neither this nor that, alighting here, alighting there, somewhat formless, directionless, always directionless, and thoroughly without root. This is the life I have made for myself. It is not your life, I am confident of that. It is a life sui generis, but that does not give it inherent value. Its inherent value is simply in its being a life, not the kind of life it is. Does one life have more value than another? From where I stand, it seems it must, but perhaps from the gods' point of view, it does not. That is my guess—only a guess. What do I know about the gods and how they view us? Do I even care? That is all I am capable of writing for now, it is my little seed now ensoiled. We will see if I can cultivate it.