I live misery, and I love misery.

Only in misery can one know the loss of joy.

What has one loss?

What has made one feel as if one’s life is in misery?

How does one know misery without joy?

I know the answers. I don’t even know why I wrote these questions. It’s not like anyone is going to read this.

I’ll probably never read it again.

Melancholia has its purpose. Being depressed can make the artist write and write and write.

At times, it’s the deep state of depression that drives the artist.

Ever know an artist who doesn’t go through bouts of depression?

There’s this one guy…

I know. That guy is the exception to the rule.

Every rule has one exception. 

I’ve met those who are the exception to the rule, and if they have any self-respect, they feel kind of guilty, but they get it and go with it.

They never asked to be the exception. They just have to play the cards they’re dealt.

I get it. Every rule needs an exception,  that one bit of chaos to fuck things up.

Chaos happens, then repeats, then becomes the rule until something  chaotic happens again.

Synchronicity uses chaos.

Who sees synchronicity is one I want to talk to.  If they can tell me the choices and what happens depending on the choice I make….oh…oh…I need one that can see synchronicity. 

No you don’t. 

You want one, you do not need one.

Why would you cheat yourself from making your decisions?

If you’re going to put it that way, fine.

I’m just go to bed.

You know I’m you, right?

You can go fuck yourself and enjoy the orgasm.

I really need to quit talking to myself.