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And all the now visibly rough edges wound the flesh of my soul. All the hard surfaces bruise the part of me that knows them to be hard. All the visibly heavy objects weigh on my soul. It’s as if someone were using my life to beat me with.
both beautiful and useless.
As a man of ideals, perhaps my greatest aspiration really does not go beyond occupying this chair at this table in this café.
I suffer, possibly deservedly.
A kind of pre-neurosis of what I will be when I no longer am chills body and soul.
And the cold of what I will not then feel gnaws at my present heart.
