We’re a sixteen legged philosophy machine, postgraduates. We’re like the werewolves in Twilight: telepathically connected. We’re our sole company. Our sole friends, our sole enemies. There was Livia, for a while. There was even Herwig, but not for long.
We’re a thought gang. A philosophy collective. There’s barely a cigarette paper between us.
We’ve mind melded. Thought melded. Except for Helmut. And Fiver, probably. And Gazelle is too clever for us all.
We sound the same. We speak the same. We think the same.
Sure, Io’s Christian – but she’s punk Christian, which is virtually gnostic. Sure, Driss is wired to the conspiratorial theory moon, but he hates the world as much as the best of us. Sure, Sophia’s always a little behind – Livia probably named her ironically, but she gave us all ironic names. Sure, Shiva’s some euro-Indian nutcase. And Furio’s all attitude. And Fiver’s a genuine mystic. But none of us wants simply to be themselves.
Work in Progress 