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The kind of gratefulness that one subjected to violence may have towards a different source of violence.
Another one off the streets. One day, the gays had enough. They left their houses and their bars. They grouped together, knitting themselves tightly, tightly, tighter than you could believe into one mass, an overwhelming sea. And they walked. They did not wait for the blackshirts to make the journey to them.
This is what we have lost. We have forgotten how to do this, that we even have the power to do it. When homosexuality was legalised, many decided they no longer needed to, and the memory became just that, a memory. Then not even a memory. A story. A vague idea. A metaphor.
YOU [that is, the reader, not the character] are welcome to take a break here given the extremity of the content explored in the next series of chapters. It isn’t shameful to take a break. It is in fact encouraged that you do so right here, so that this novel does not become overwhelming to you. Take a break, get a cup of tea or some water. Maybe go for a walk. Then come back and continue reading, safe in the knowledge that you [the reader] have fortified your constitution and thus can handle what follows.
The couple who lives inside the picnic basket have bought a condo.
Do you know what I am? Do you? Truly? I don’t know what I am. I looked in the mirror today and I only saw a bloodied mess, I only saw a vacuum, and you are like the thing that fills that void, the void that I am, the empty space, I am the nothing and you are suddenly God, I am the dead bird and you are the hand holding a second dead bird, I am the cunt and you are the active monster I am the cunt and you are the synthetic meat, I am hollow. I am hollow. I am hollow. I am hollow.
Sometimes, the world is so pointless and cruel, that the only logical, sane response is to tear out one’s eyes.