Sometime back I condemned reality, something I presently wish I could offer my apologies to, if it were possible. But it incessantly eludes me, with fact and fiction void of definition within my little space.
You can never know anything, because life will always be more capricious then any fickle-minded fancy you are capable of conjuring. I have proven it to myself. I can never imagine half of the shit that happens to me.
Is the fault then to be found in our stars, or in ourselves, that we are underlings?
Are our fates ever stagnant, can we ever make decisions based on complete information? Is there such a thing as all-inclusive, non-partial information.
Blame this sudden bout of philosophical intrusion on the rain I managed to get caught in. I suppose I stayed in it because it had seemed like such a terribly romantic thing to do. You can now tell me how erotic drizzle on a pitch-black silken tarred road, glossed over with warm-street lights can be. And I would understand.
xoxox
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