Detached and depressed today.
No more Bill Hicks, Lewis Grizzard or David Foster Wallace. More dead white guys littering the literary sheets.
Left with the real world, the Book of the Future sold page by impossible page.
No longer entertained by compromising individuals.
Not comfortable comforting the feel-good middle masses.
Lost in the labels I make about not existing.
A yellow butterfly like a fall leaf defying gravity in a late October wind storm.
I have no power, no name, no fame, no place in history to call mine.
Faceless, blameless, hopelessly hopeful (or hopefully hopeless?), hopping along on legs burdened with 70 lbs of excess fat I can only call mine.
Chronicling is not living. Living is not journalism but journeying on travails.
This day, like many, too many, before, this day that shrinkwraps itself around me, getting tighter until I can hardly breathe, the cliched life choking off words, when I can find no yesterday, today or tomorrow with my mark scratched onto its hardcore surface...
I know what it's like to be dead already.
I am the water vapour with no thoughts that we think we call clouds.
I never existed in the first place. I had no need of black velvet paintings or similar nouveau riche luxury expenditures. My fits of consumption have always been modest.
And yet here is the luxury of "I" in plain view.
Comparisons get me nowhere. I have no one to impress but my self-delusional vain self.
Eat and be eaten. The essence of essen.
Maybe being hungry is all I've got to say for myself, and food, not visions, usually suffices.
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