I pour in a few words with a swig of steaming crap, but I am faced with this damn computer screen stuff to my blog (how fucking shitty word), to stuff my internessence platitudes, worse yet affectations.
So what? Sentimentality or cynicism?
engineering, posterity, the absolute first? Or the enjoyment and ephemeral? Die without ever knowing. How ironic is not it?
Me, I want to be that which it is said later: "He was right!" Or not, I want to be the one we now say: "He's right." And later, I am dead. And so much the better.
I thrill to the sound of these names before, visionary thinkers whose life is reduced to a few lines in a biography complacent. Males
infinity, whose words resonate when people die, crushed by themselves.
Digression.
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