No writing. Not much thinking. It was one of those writer days where thinking of myself as a writer was just fucking stupid. Even if my writing were any good, what difference does it make? Children still starve, and men still kill each other, and lunatics still rule the dispossessed.
So, yeah, one of those kinds of days. Existing seemed pretty fucking stupid too. Why do we exist? Is there some point? In my more grandiose moments I am affected by strong emotions, ones that make me wipe away tears before anyone can see them. I entertain the idea of universal truths.
Maybe we exist to feel those pure emotions. It’s a nice thought. Let’s end on that rather than with what I really feel. No word count update, it’s the fucking same as yesterday.