(no subject)
My last work ended up in the hands of harsh critics who sought to bring my name down in order to brings theirs up. i had written the piece in five weeks, a period of time from which i had never expected any prolific output. my hands were already shaking uncontrollably
my blood felt as if it were petrifying, and my last attempt at any writing had occurred one year prior. now i feel sick. i rest my eyes opening them only to find hours lost, irreplaceable hours. and my hands. terrible pain in each wrist hinders all but the simplest activities. The piece is indeed my greatest. I don't need to wait for music historians to praise it to an apathetic listener twenty years from today. Besides, I was never enticed by posthumous releases. What a fucking joke. I live now in order to collect now. I am in self- imposed exile in a city I hate. Living in a box I hate. I’m with a girl I hate. Or I should say she’s with the girl I love. Nothing will be the same, I suppose, as it was previously. Two years ago, in fact, the quintessential precursor to my now erratic yet often times unremarkable behavior. Yeah. I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel. My new piece of intellectual property just became publicly disposed product.