Oh holy fuck you have no idea how I sit here under the glaring unforgiving light of some fucking sun or other and write this fucking shit for consumption by who knows what for creatures, creatures that are are unknown and strange to me like animals, be they out of a flipping fairytale or horror story, a terrible story of normal life, which is, in the end, more fearsome than all of the other possibilities that any human being can think of put together in one huge animate piece of…
I am not listening to music right now.
In the end I am only afraid that my voice will… stop. That I will cease to speak, that I will cease to care to speak. For that is the end. When I cease to care to make my thoughts known then I cease to exist in my own mind.


The older I get, the more sentimental I get. And looking back, I wonder at what an unforgiving bastard I was, as a young man. I had as many failings as the next fellow, but do you think I saw them? I gave them lip-service: I always did say that I am, myself, an asshole. But did I truly believe it? I don’t think I really did. And now I know: I was. I was an arrogant fool. Gad, those were the days, when I could be a self-assured idiot without second thought. I really believed I saw the big picture, when in fact I didn’t know squat.