18 May 2011
In the evenings I settle into a solitary routine. I sit at a vintage oak writing desk, cocktails arrayed before me. Bookshelves and antique prints mark the walls above. I think of different ways to communicate an almost inexpressible rage. A regular exorcism, of sorts. I know full well what bothers me. The world is turned upside down. The wrong sort of people are on top: the stupid, vulgar, ugly, furtive, cowardly, pushy, diseased, fat, unstylish masses, stinking of envy and devoid of original thought, who, in earlier centuries, would have been left on the hillside to die of exposure. But today such runts are installed in positions of influence and control. The vermin are in charge! Are they even fully human? I have my doubts. The disorder marking the modern world is a foul aberration, a total perversion of nature. It shall not last, of that I am certain. Blood will out. With this knowledge I have henceforth decided to endeavour to walk on the sunny side of the street, and have made great progress in this direction. But occasionally I slip and find myself in the valley of the shade of despair, darker, deeper, and colder than before.