Your suicidal fantasies. Why do we have to be part of them? Why does it all have to be public? Why do you have to talk about them so much? Why do you go on and on …
Because I’m tired of life. And I’m tired of being tired. Don’t you think we’ve lived too long, all of us? Don’t you think we should find the perfect moment to … you know … And what if that moment’s now … or now …
Do you think suicide is truth, or something?
I think suicide is error. I think suicide’s a great going wrong. But I like error. And I want to go wrong. And no one will understand why, not really. And maybe I won’t understand why. It’s … it’s a turn into unreason. Into not thinking things through. It’s a desire for like, unknowledge. Non-fucking-knowing.
Are you going to do it tonight – of all nights? Is this going to be it? How dramatic! Tomorrow, you’ll be but a memory for us. Imagine that. You’ll exist in the past. We’ll talk about you in the past tense. What sort of funeral do you want? How should we remember you?
How would you do it, anyway? Actually, I don’t even want to know. I’m sure I’ve asked that before. I don’t want to feed the fucking frenzy.
Work in Progress 