Sometimes I think nothing makes sense. On a tiny planet, running to nowhere for millions of years, born in the midst of pain, we grow, we fight, we suffer, we suffer, cry, die, die, and others are born to restart the useless comedy.
I’ve never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. My only real concern is my inner life.
I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don’t want virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones.
George Orwell. 1984.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.