We demand the meaning of meaning. We shake the bars of this world. Cry out. It makes prison no longer seem so bad.
Such a sense of having died. Such a sense of never actually having lived – not for a moment. Such a sense of never having been born.
Why can’t we just die? Why isn’t it just time to die? Why can’t the end just come?
This is not my world. I do not accept this world. I am not who I am. This is not me. These are not my words.
Every day, new horrors. New … disgraces. New things to loathe. Every day, new reasons for hatred.
Sink lower. There’s further to fall. There’s a depth we haven’t reached, not yet.
There’s a whole art of giving up. You can be a virtuoso of giving up.
We should be shot like mad dogs. Imprisoned! But only if we’re allowed to hang ourselves in prison. For our own dignity.
The world is too much. There’s too much of their world in the world.
We can only live against this world. We can only live in the intensity of our hatred.
We have to dwell there: in our absolute hatred. In our total opposition of the world – to their world.
Work in Progress 