Writing
Poetry literature is so tomorrow it is already yesterday. If it can exist it already has and is already shit.
Twenty-four hours in a bunker without light nor hope of escape.
Just as long as the words keep getting sent on down I am happy to spit them out into the world for general consumption.
The final analysis is in.
What of the torture of writing in english when to not write and yet speak english seems the prison? Socrates did not need a typewriter to be a cunt to everyone.
On the one hand there is solipsistic tunnelling, on the other interactivity. The other is always there.