The pathetic wanderings of an unaccomplished voice, the constant anxiety, the third level of thought always probing, yet ignored mostly.
The leadish limbs, the inspirational depression. An artistic contradiction. The slow plod, onwards, onwards, onwards, reflected pupils and blurred vision.
There is no truth. There is momentary delight, desperation, momentary ecstacy.
The Moaning wail.
They want you to know, feel, act.
this is more than nihilism, this has no catagory.