Those of us who are "sensitive", or are considered to be, are under a kind of curse. Those of us who are habitually untidy, in the whole sphere of our lives, are left with strange options.
What will the intelligent kids do with themselves? Left too often in some bare room in a rented DSS flat: bare bulb, paperbacks in a corner, confusion, too much thought.
My room a ghetto, solitude. It's easy out of sheer confusion to envision a rope around your neck, your tongue forced out. It's sheer confusion that does it, although you may scrawl "despair" in your note; sheer confusion, wordless foreknowledge of future disaster, indeed a prescient and informed loss of faith in the symbols of the modern world- And isn't that the point? That it's all too easy to lose faith in our modern icons, our empty ideals?
It would seem unusual if a loss of faith did not occur. Those of us who have tried desperately, heartsick, to succeed, may succeed in at least this.
After the lights go out, and morbid thought begins... sudden visions of the rope.
What did the young man die of? Sheer confusion.