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(cont.) I’ve contemplated suicide—
as I’m sure they must’ve as well.

Both had nothing to live for
except alcohol, cigarettes, family, friends—
life itself.

I live for these things too—
but also for my philosophy,
the written word—
the chance to exist unhindered—
an unborn audience—

to live dead forever
with Nietzsche, Plato,
Alexander the fucking great.

But that’s stupid.
Pointless.

The human animal
isn’t worth saving.

Yet,
still I go on.