We live like shadows transit, fleeting, evanescent forgotten in time. would the world know that a versatile writer lived, who was buried in the tombs of valuable paper, overworked, brain-dead from the monotony of survival who would know that a great painter existed, full of zeal for his passion, whose passion was stifled, strangled, and killed by viperous words of the stupid, the envious, and the myopic.. who will remember the thinker and philosopher analogous to Plato, Nietzsche, Petterson, avoided by kith and kin, branded a misfit and blasphemous by society, living dreadfully in a haze of dissociated alcoholic stupor we all exist in nothingness, hollow and void of actual existence we live, we breathe, we dance, we copulate, we go grey, we fight the ghosts of the pasts, we live with disappointments and sink warmly into the bed and grave that beckons us.
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