Explain yourself. What do you think you’re doing here? Pitiful
literary pretensions. With your stupid short stories, your insipid
poetry, your pathetic attempts at hymnody…
I don’t know. I don’t know.
Why are you writing? Why are you writing this? Any of this? It
doesn’t matter anyway. No one reads any of your shit. You’re
nobody. Nothing.
Because each day has enough worry of its own, and…
What is it you expect to accomplish?
I am stretched across time and space. Without words, I am lost.
Breathe in. Write out.
Do you think you’re helping? You’re hopeless, aren’t you?
Though he slay me, yet will I trust him.
But you don’t really mean it, do you?
So he will kill me. I have no hope. It is the same, isn’t it?
Poser. Miserable puke. It’s nothing but pretense and posturing.
With your pathetic faith and your performative suffering.
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