torstai 18. huhtikuuta 2013

cmtry gates

The unbearably mindblowing thing about dead people is that they no longer exist, and therefore I'm posting this again,

because they really, really, really don't exist anymore, most of them haven't existed for a while; James Dean doesn't exist; he once was a person with dreams and thoughts and fears and stomach aches, but that entity no longer exists, James Dean no longer exists, he's just a ghost caught on tape, just as unable to feel anything as a shoe box caught on tape; and even though I can watch him walk and talk and look sad, that's just an illusion: he isn't actually there, and ultimately the only place where he walks and talks and looks sad is my head. And this is how it is for Marilyn Monroe and for most of my friends. And Bukowski and Oscar Wilde and all those people, they don't exist anymore, they actually aren't here talking to me, all that's left is a number of sentences; what they felt, what they thought, what they found funny, it only exists in my head now, as a ghost, as an illusion, because they are dead, dead, dead

Why does this always strike me at 8 AM?

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