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| Sargent |
It makes no sense. I keep fucking things in my life up. Resembling the suicide impulse - it feels similar - though displaced outwards towards others. Too much personal chaos, too much fumbling. Little fouls that refuse to go undetected. I should disappear. I would, but there is nowhere left for that now. The world has become an infinitely visible place. No end to being detected. A life composed of the sound of sirens. The seasickness of disorder.
Somewhat fanatically seems the only reasonable way left to be, to live. This sits on the young like an enticing shirt, on the old like a lost helmet, on the wall as a guitar unplayed.
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