My life was like an indie-art-film once. (No twice) in the last week. First in a (dead silent) car garage. Then while riding a bike. The lifeless surge of emptiness came over me. Like when you read post-modern poetry. (Or Samuel Beckett.) Its an erie feeling to be quite honest. I don’t care too much for it. Some thrive on it. Others fake it. “Creative” post-modernists think that they do something for the world while elevating this Camus-ology of self-centered meaninglessness.
God save us.
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