I think I'm going to be a recluse. Write novels in a shack with cats until I get arrested or evicted for not paying taxes or something. Then get arrested for vagrancy and go to jail and write more about how messed up the world is. If I get out, I'll go back to being a vagrant. I'll let my hair get long and matted and I'll let my nails grow long and black and I'll dig my own grave with them and I'll smell like dust and decay and death. I'll give up. I'll resign from humanity.