Death...

A second chance- that’s the delusion. There never was to be but one. We work in the dark- we do what we can- we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.
-Henry James


He was overwhelmed by a feeling of total hopelessness, and for the first time in his life he felt the real seduction of the idea of suicide. He had always believed that consciousness was the supreme value, but what did it profit a man to be conscious if it was only of failure, humiliation and regret.

After a few minutes he didn't have to force himself to sit still, for he liked this, attempting to do something well, to the limit of his ability, on his own terms.

There is that deserted table; blank, properly arranged papers lying there since ages, unused. The fountain pens, a couple, containing the now dried ink, untouched, look dirty, losing their shine, and perhaps power as well. Isn't it a premonition of the deathly shadow of ignominy to come? In the years to come would I hate myself more than I do now?

Didn't she look like the goddess in the moment of death?

What's freedom to you?

"....like the story of the cat, where the couple was arguing about a divorce but the cat thought they were disagreeing about the giblets for its lunch."

Fuck the Gods!

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