26 January 2004

crowded

paradoxically, the imperfect imprint of a mechanical typewriter is much more appealing than a perfect imitation of it on a perfect laser printer. isn't that the metaphor of all metaphors?

i don't really know what i want. deep down, i just want to die. maybe, just maybe, it's time to stop resisting and succumb to this desire. after all, it is just a stupid animal deep inside that forces me to cling to life, to try to survive. without her, it's merely empty biological manifestation of homeostasis. human brain already recognized futility of it all, but the reptile is still resisting.

why do you people keep torturing me? why do you all want something? i've got nothing to offer. i don't owe any of you anything, anything at all. just buy my fucking art and leave me the fuck alone.

i feel crowded, yet i spend most of my time alone. it is easier to descend like that.