Funny how in just one moment you can go from lovnig life, and everything in it, and people and places and smells and things, and yourself- however naively- to subscribing purely to existentialism.

Existence is a futile hell. Everything I've ever written is testimony to that.

Wouldn't Camus and Kafka be proud?

I want to quote "At Seventeen" except that Janis Ian is a beautiful victim, and we all feel sorry for her, and for ourselves when we relate to her, and I do not deserve the perverse privelege of self-pity.

So, yeah, on the undecided matter of the biggest tradgedy of this week- it's decided. The play can go fuck itself. But this is somewhat larger.

On with it.