What is this that commands my observance and demands that my tired eyes droop down?
What is it that compels me onward so vilely and distractedly to write these falling lines?
What can it be? Mere boredom? Indifference? Ennui? Surfeit of TV darkened rooms loneliness? Fear, and telling myself not to fear?
I have simply lived too long. And that statement has force to it, and feeling, more so than if it were uttered by a man fifty years older than me.
It's my abominable selfishness again I s'pose. But left abandoned here in these rooms what are boys like me s'posed to do? After having drunk the last cup o' tea... Watch'd the last TV show... Had the final wank... Become disinterested in the next chapter of the novel, the latest record?...
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