I want that. I want that awful intense and serious unhappiness, cos then I might feel better, and then I might be happy.
Happiness, Death, Sadness
He'd been let down so oftenHis brow was on the floorBut then they foundA small hole in the groundAnd let him down some more
Poetry
An hour crept by. I think it was an hour. I hardly recognized it. Bearing no resemblance to any of the numerous other hours of my acquaintance, I hardly recognized a single second of it.
Time
I feel like I'm in a film about a struggling artist who keeps getting up at all hours of the night to look at his big, blank empty canvas. And in a way I am. Except that i'm not struggling. I'm Hector Kipling. I might be getting up at all hours of the night to look at my big, blank, empty canvas, but I am not fucking struggling.
Art