Productivity

This is the only way we can close down: two milliliters of black ink slowly pouring out from the tip of a ball-point pen, unto a previously empty sheet of paper. The emptiness is eaten up by the densest existence, of the wholeness of a person itching to be acknowledged; nobody can understand. Not now. Would we want this - this compulsion of the world to expand? Not now. There is too much to take in and we cannot keep up. But this is indulgence. We are too selfish. Only our troubles are important, only our indecencies "beautiful." Why should we be so seduced by immorality? Everything is a contradiction. We want what damages us. So we think only words can help us (or some Scotch.) We write on and on but there really isn't anything to write about - one of these days a friend might utter a scorching statement against our way of living, and we'd get mad, and we'd throw that glass of Scotch on his face, and we'd storm out. Outside, someone snatches our wallets, but we'd reach into our coats to find a pen and this piece of paper, and we'd head back into that building and start writing.