m: Would you sleep with me for a million pounds?
f: …sure
m: Well, here is twenty quid, let’s go!
f: What sort of girl do you think I am?!
m: I have already established that, now we are haggling over price
This isn’t the post that was originally here. That one was an angsty tirade about lack of joy, time, money, fun and the like. It sounded quite needy, depressive and a cry-for-help. It wasn’t any of those things, well, it was, but it didn’t need to be, and you didn’t need to read it.
He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet’s soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen.
So I removed it, leaving the quotes (and the message therein) as I wanted to put something here. Until there is nothing here. I can see nothing, you see.
It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not.
But there is nothing, not any more.
I don’t think it had ever occurred to me that man’s supremacy is not primarily due to his brain, as most of the books would have one think. It is due to the brain’s capacity to make use of the information conveyed to it by a narrow band of visible light rays. His civilization, all that he had achieved or might achieve, hung upon his ability to perceive that range of vibrations from red to violet. Without that, he was lost
Whether I have become bored, or boring, I don’t care to discuss here. I wish I had other things on my mind, but the problem is, I don’t.
I want to break out — to leave this cycle of infection and death. I want to be taken in love: so taken that you and I, and death, and life, will be gathered inseparable, into the radiance of what we would become… .
It is too late.
Fin.
