If I were to write a story it would be futile and worthless and void of substance only so that I could be reminded that when finished my purpose was nothing but work done in bad faith, vain toiling over trifles with no ears to hear. In a word, I am sure when I finish I will say **** it, it was ****, and I am never going to waste my sleep trying to be deep again. I ramble because I am void of something or another but I have forgotten what it is. The ramble masks my apathy with the chatter of whatever the other will make of it-- he will void something, negate that, criticize this… make me feel silly like the men on the trolley looking about uncomfortable with the silence seeping into their discussion on two thousand years of Western Military dominance. I wonder what an intellectual is like in America these days. One of the buffoons with sleeves and scraggly hair talking about being enlightened after reading the rambles of Nietzsche. A barbarous Jew wishing he were part of the vulgar German heathen spirit. The rambling in my head stretches from here to hell and I still am convinced there is nothing organic about it. Imagine it as the muttering of an idiot with a backpack, aching and sweating, and while waiting to cross a street, asking himself why not throw myself into this Toyota. No I couldn’t do that. What would Lace say. The ANT Eater. What would my parents do without me? Ten seconds of caprice and on my way back up the hill again. I imagine the devil rambles as I do. I imagine the devil is a projection of the drivel I am writing this minute. It makes me cringe.
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