What’s the purpose of all this writing?
Does it mean anything?
I mean does it mean anything to anyone other than myself and does that even matter?
I stood up and my little bones creaked and it made me feel old and it made me feel human.
I’m not a super hero. In fact these days I’m not even God as my martyr complex goes the way of the Loch Ness Monster and Al Capone’s vault.
I saw Geraldo Rivera at Passover a few years back. I said hello because I’ve always been drawn to pseudo celebrities and their insufferable politics.
What’s the purpose of all these cave drawings?
Do they have any purpose?
I mean do they have a purpose to more than just the cave dwellers who are willing to risk their lives spelunking in the dark after hours?
I stood up and my little bones creaked in protest as I attempted to walk into the kitchen for a quick bite.
I’m not a monster. In fact these days even being called the spawn of Satan doesn’t fit me like it once possibly did.
I’m growing older as I consider throwing in the towel and forgetting about all of these high minded ideals as the status fucking quo calls out to me like a death sentence from a bygone era.