somehow, it’s always November. I felt weaker in those months. Still, one has to live, even as a domestic creature, with worry eyes, fearing some certain fates.
Idiots grow old and I must accept them. That sucks so bad. There’s no win anymore.
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive toward such things
The infirm glory of positive hours
Because I know time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice as things are as they are.
And pray to God to have mercy on me.
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
too much explain.
I’m not going to lower myself for comfort. Let things be untold, let stories be unheard, let idiots grow old and judge me as I constantly judge them, let the air be dry and tense, let peace never comes. Hate and be hated.