Shellac
1000 Hurts

THE REVIEW

Wake up. You have only twenty minutes to get across the city where sixty-year-older you is waiting. You must honor, as you do every week, the memory of the woman who supported and tolerated you for a lifetime. Run, hurry, the metro won't wait for you and life is a blanket that's too short: for what's there, some things slip away or are absent. Pass through the people, affirm your solitude, brush past and touch them, but do not speak to them. They don't really exist, by now it's just you...Do you ever feel lonely? Lonely in the middle of the crowd...It's useless to cry. We are born and die alone... I keep telling myself: it's not my fault if things aren't the way I want, but I don't believe it. I hate the gypsies who start playing music in the metro. They bring me back to reality when there's nothing better to do than escape: they're like mosquitoes when you're about to fall asleep. It feels like traveling, leaving what you know to meet who knows what new things, but does anything new really exist? If it doesn't, what should I do with the old bullshit? Who can I sell it to? I've decided: I don't believe in anything anymore and if someone wants to sensitively talk to me about world hunger, the ozone hole, renewable energy, the democratic party, my sore anus... well, I'll sensitize them with kicks in the ass. I am alone and I want to stay alone, I've lost myself and I'm not looking...It's also a religion not to believe in anything... Man has never had, in heaven and on earth, but one tyrant: himself!... I'm here, I exist, I'm sure or at least I think. I don't know what to do and I don't even know what I want. I'm sure that the best thing would be to not want anything at all, but it's impossible. It would take a catastrophe, you don't stop being crap except under a catastrophe. I would like to sleep for a month and see what has changed when I wake up. It would be nice, but also useless: things don't change even if you want them to, let alone by inertia. The train has finished its journey. It departs as I step off. On the other track, like in a mirror, I see myself in sixty years: alone as a battered dog...All killers see themselves with rose-colored glasses for the future. It comes with the trade. So be it... and when you think you are alone, you realize that somewhere in the world there's someone who understands you and this seems to me the only possibility of survival: socialism of pain.

To the one true God above:
here is my prayer not the first you’ve heard, but the first I wrote.
(not the first, but the others were a long time ago).
There are two people here, and I want you to kill them.
Her - she can go quietly