From a Notebook Lost – The Same and The Other 58
All that rings in mine head is the voices of hypocrites. This distasteful breed is but the lowest of all scum and muck. They rise from the bog and the mire, serpents and vipers and asps they be. I spew them out on to themselves. They cause me to reel back and retch and hold my head and stomach in pain. Why do they exist? I know and know not. But wait an inkling is coming to me, a perhappenstance of peradventure. They exist to propagate a lie. To be filler for the holes. Like putting a cork in a leaky boat. That is what they are for. For me to use as I sail to the isle of truth and other while they helplessly believe what they are told. They are like the bottom feeders in the ocean, sucking away till something bigger consumes them. To be my food, my nourishment as I travel to the land of other. Let them paste their masks on and believe a lie and be a lie. They are as worms as the eagles feed on and then fly to the utmost heights; as I will. That is their purpose, oh now I see. Let them become what they are. Filler, bottom feeder, worm. Let them become this. Let them see themselves in the mirror as they are. Let that be their reward. Yes, let that be their reward.