“Doubt the stars are fire”—I had heard this before. My uncle is a murderer and my mother a … My best friends I sent to their death as though it were a high school prank. The lady I loved, oh, I mocked her a-plenty. It stank. And so did I. Running over my ruminations, thinking past my perturbations, I can’t be less amused with myself these days. For I, the brightest man in the entire Western canon, had like nothing faded from my own mind’s magnificent glory, a star myself smudged out in heaven. What’s worse, is that I saw it all, as clearly as frost upon a midnight windowpane, and seeing all that with a kind of clarity few men in a millennium are ever graced to possess, killed another for a common rat. My aim was false. My intentions true. And when I look back over all my well-versed ways, the only man I ever loved with untinctured purity is now a rather putrid skull. Sadly, I could not tap more evenly into that, and very nimbly took apart a kingdom with plays, outrageousness, and murder. I even made a plaster casting of my cock, and with a razor blade inserted near its balls, hung this golden, painted object upon my own mother’s wall. But these ramparts, and turrets, and moats and all sorts of fairy-land princely things that I have known all my brief life, could never replace in me the nearby, plainer possession of human feeling for my chronic, passionate strife. These walls, these walls, these walls. I built them all with words, with words, with words. I needed to have said: the things I know, they are all just yesterday’s news, who cares? My dad’s himself a haunted ghost. And when my doublet was unbrac’d before my sweetheart to be done with them. To, instead, have taken her in my strong arms (not his), when upon the sky I painted in the clouds a weasel, and stood beside her tendentious father’s gossip my own unboxed plenitude of rainbow colors and a true artist’s easel, and said: I am. Ich bin ich und ich liebe dich. But I, proud as Zarathustra, got caught up in my own FPS video game, and, like a snuffed out TV unplugged, was just dead as all rest for an ordinary ducat.
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