not above

eh, you're mad at me? you're the man in the bowler hat, not a fool. arent you the second-thoughted man? mr. urbanity. arent you as well-read as i believed? you dont have the composed steel-cold vocation. arent you calm? you think november is for writing novels. you wont abandon anyone. not even for a minute. that is so boring. why wont you go away? you cant be as mad or as mad at me as your letters pretend. i am a dull blade, a blight for your kind. its simple, i just dont make sense, i am muttering foolish invectives, always in shame, am sadly ridiculous. you sort, you urbane civilized beings, some of you are half alien i feel certain. i remember you. do you live a soft life with your beloved, the life that children demand? are you both as hectic as you pretend in letters? i dont believe in so much sensation in family life. that is why i live alone. so i may hold conversations only with myself.. i dont want to fight with anyone anymore. i only fought once. it was all foolish. the hand i held was fashioned in my imagination.

the flood is taking all my things. again.

wont you write? dont be so mournful. dont be so pretentious. you are pretension! that other - is composition! he's agonizing, but you, you're just a bother. you both are awful. i'm nothing to you. write witty things. write the truth, your real sadness. i aint it.