my mundane life is all too trivial I am a child I still live in my parents house the one my father built with his words, the one my mother blew spirit into with her macaronis the one I sat in my room studying in useless packs of forgotten information trying to cry. into new notebooks and ukulele filling bathtubs opening windows letting air form an air of beauty in my ugly homely country unloved country every being here utters poorly articulated words of loath to you how do you stand so strong whilst staggering within adversity? would my life be more or less mundane if I were nabokov living in russia transcending and transmitting beauty? coated with cold and cruelty thats cruel for cruelty and aesthetics sake, rather than heat and rage and silenced misery.