Uma, reading from my notebooks. The urgency of the lack of urgency. The emergency of the non-emergency. The evil of the lack of obvious evil. The apocalypse of the non-apocalypse. This is how they’ll fool us. By making it appear so normal.
What is this supposed to be? Uma asks. What do you think you’re writing?
Every day, new horrors. New … disgraces. New things to loathe. Every day, new reasons for hatred.
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.
Work in Progress 