“At its root literature is writing for nothing; a pathological extravagance whose natural companions are poverty, ill-health, mental instability, and all the other symptoms of a devastated life that is protracted in the shadow of futility.”—Nick Land. The Thirst for Annihilation: Georges Bataille and Virulent Nihilism. 1992 (via hate-wizard)
“Too much, too little. Too fat, too thin. Or nobody. Laughter or tears. Haters. Lovers. Strangers with faces like the backs of thumb tacks. Armies running through streets of blood, waving wine bottles, bayoneting and fucking virgins. An old guy in a cheap room with a photograph of M. Monroe.
There is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock. People so tired, mutilated either by love or no love. People just are not good to each other, one on one. The rich are not good to the rich; the poor are not good to the poor. We are afraid.
Our educational system tells us that we can all be big-ass winners. It hasn’t told us about the gutters or the suicides. Or the terror of one person aching in one place, alone - untouched, unspoken to - watering a plant. People are not good to each other. People are not good to each other. People are not good to each other.
I suppose they never will be. I don’t ask them to be. But sometimes I think about it. The beads will swing. The clouds will cloud. And the killer will behead the child like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone. Too much, too little, too fat, too thin. Or nobody. More haters than lovers.
People are not good to each other. Perhaps if they were, our deaths would not be so sad. Meanwhile I look at young girls: stems, flowers of chance. There must be a way. Surely there must be a way that we have not yet thought of. Who put this brain inside of me? It cries. It demands. It says that there is a chance. It will not say, “no.” “