fled the smog and autocity of the peopled city, languishes homely, onely and lonely, with the constantly prefixed percievedly.
Well. The problem is the lost years, 18-23, prime growing years when my then wispy turd's-beard was speckled with puke from my constant drunkenness. I am an 18 y/o, d.i., in a 25 year old's degenerating corpse. Struck up via dating site a conversation w an interesting lass. sie lebt aber.
Ultimately what can one do? I feel like an ex-con.
But anyway. What I wanted to consider, humble reader, is the following. why do people like e.g. lynch's eraserhead, Beckett's trilogy? There is something there that people feel? There is humanity, even there, among people so disjoint? For whom life is a box, w as much freedom as a coffin. This is it. I'm surrounded by the young and free. It causes me no end of joy to know that there are unyoung, unfree, unborn and yet half dead people, if only in literature. That I am not alone, that life is hiding, squalor; that language constantly fails, sticks in the throat; that to be orthogonal to others is not the province of me alone. Alone, lone, lonely; there is nothing worse than something unique really. What we want is to jar before something, to take a second before realizing that the purported unique thing isn't new, there is a precedent. The absolute scariest thing in the world would be to be completely unique.
This is utter bullshit, an insult to my normally civilised and sharp complaints.