One quarter of an hour to four in the morning and it's just me and Ivan Ilyich. Sixty pages of Russian pseudo-Christian quasi-nihilist proof that homo-sapiens are ceiling fans. Several works of fiction begin to take shape under the contrived umbrella of interconnectedness. A cop-out to avoid the individual attention each demands for which they all call me asshole. Stories of life are unpublishably short but I've no patience for filler so in short they go unpublished. I'm no Stephen King. A little closer to four in the morning. A journey to the concrete jungle yields disappointment. With empty cup and moleskine cahier I attempt to busk but to passers by I appear to be just sitting there so the cup remains unburdened. That is to say I don't make shit. Fortunately independent wealth keeps all boats afloat in a sea of something metaphorically relevant. Fact or fiction? I'm no reliable narrator. Being physically repulsive leaves mystery my only option for attracting hapless victims but you can't catch fish with question marks so I'm not fucked. What am I doing with my life? Four in the morning. What does it matter?
No comments:
Post a Comment