What I feel like doing is dying, at least temporarily, but this, as I’ve indicated, is only because my head aches. And it suddenly occurs to me how much more eloquently a great prose stylist would say this. Sentence by sentence he would elaborate on the anonymous grief of the world; the imagining eyes behind his paragraphs would scan the earth’s various human dramas; and through the feverish throbbing of his temples an entire metaphysics of woe and misery would take shape on paper. But I don’t have an eloquent style. My head aches because my head aches. The universe hurts me because my head
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