This man was most qualified to analyse and catagorise. His diagnosis, in it's crucial form, was that I had been cursed with above-average intelligence. "Much above average", he added, handsome and young; it was sort of lovely to hear. Gently he told me, "intelligence does not guarantee happiness; in fact, it almost guarantees a level of unhappiness". He told me I was a big thinker. I told him about my contemplative struggle, at age eight, in realising that suicide might just be the meaning of life. Envy the ignorant for they'll never know the sad reality of everything, this miserable puzzle that we've cracked. Those sad people on the sad train going off to their sad lives; they've actually got it made because they'll never know.