Can somebody explain to me how an utter tiredness of life can full develop in a matter of mere hours?
I've had my share of Scottish indie bands and chills and sleep and eggplant and modern sadness and empathy and not knowing how to communicate but trying to anyway. I can't help but feel entitled to more.
A cripple walks amongst you, all you tired human beings
He's got all the things a cripple has: not two working arms and legs
And vital parts fall from his system and dissolve in Scottish rain
Vitally he doesn't miss them, he's too [messed] up to care
Well, this is how we do things now
This is how the modern stay scared
So I cut out all the good stuff
I cut off my foot to spite my leg
Is that you in front of me,
Coming back for even more of exactly the same?
You must be a masochist
To love a modern leper on his last leg.
"To love makes one solitary, she thought."
Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
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