found in Styron's darkness visible... he survived auschwitz... but said adieu to life: by throwing himself down a flight of stairs.

millennial, generation y, huh?!
    also called the:
bearable heaviness of non-being...
   say: survivors of auschwitz,
and apart from Kundera,
i'm fudged into this stealth-culprit
     hangover...
   and when i speak the native tongue
i use double emphasis...
everything suddenly becomes italic...
    gówno... or ****... teutonic: gavron, ja,
ich habbe schtabbe ga ga, magpie on
              a licky-sticky schtaisse:
vroom bog-tie boom boom...
   everntually language is just that:
   magnifique sounds, mein herr,
    be that a cello i hear?
                      nada... mindlessly i too
  feigned a farting brigadier, farting into
       a brass horn: worth a gingerbread /
pumpernickle        marching rhythm.
yes, double emphasis in the native...
kosz (koš)... bin...
    trza błagać... błagać!
        o śmierć... beg for death...
             but hetman cossak said *smerc... and it
sounded altogether better.
   a household argument,
   after prawn-pasta was cooked throughout
an afternoon of general bewilderment:
        a heap of pebbles makes more sense
than the Orion constelation...
              given the mathematical approach
to the situation, and subsequent mapping...
   because they really did drop a bomb on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
                and that's why 21st creativity
is trapped in a hamster's routine...
    karaoke is standard...
                         this insissting plagiaristic zeitgeist!
so i said: you really think you conquered
yapan?            jesus, je suis, zeus, yesus, jamaican
                              jah jah *** buck...
      rasta root mon, rasta root.
    battered and bruised...
               someohow this whole dating scene
passed me by...
                     and what happened to me aged
21... is strangely becoming the norm
                       of giving the circumstance:
  i can't remember being of any age, particular.
  the quicker argument would coincide with:
    give me a machinegun, and march me into
a Latvian forest...
                   because, right now, it's
a scenario of being coerced into donning a leash
   or more like a leech,
                         and an afternoon spent
pulverised by a pneumatic tsunami
                     of adverts... calling it a job done,
with a siberian brew: cow juice in
                       tea...
                     liquid werther's original.