You want me to start this story telling you all about how much I want something. How I yearn, I need, I plee to god for some final resolution. Or at the very least I expect me to fabricate some character with this spectacular quality. Why? Because these are the qualities you have realized you most desire in yourself, yet are fully and utterly vacant. The very same goes for me. To lie to you in this reguard, or to create an embodiment of our desire would be false of me so I simply wish you tell you up front: we’re both shit out of luck If I do succeeded in telling you any sort of story the characters you will meet will be just as without resolution or aim as you and I. They will cry silently for purpose. They will be a train dreaming of life as a motorcycle. If you can’t sympathize with these concepts i’ve laid out I would urge you to quit reading. You’re going to find all this quite pathetic and it will not be worth your time. In fact if you are so self assured of your purpose, if you have found that ultimate drive, that magnatism towards a single subject of effort than you should perhaps even put down all literature. I write for those wholly sick with the human condition. For those who are just as diseased as myself.
