Letter 37

My clock is running. My flash of light between two vast darknesses is more behind than before me. I just don't have time for stupid people, for people who think being annoying is funny, chuckleheads, philistines or pharisees. I don't care why someone is being a gibbering shiteweasel, I don't have time for it.

My early life was, to understate, less than optimal. I've got a lot of lost joy to make up for, a lot of art to get made, a lot of moments to have.

It could be tomorrow, it could be in twenty years, but the ride will end. I don't have time for null people who add nothing.

Neither do you.