What is it to be free in an unfree world?
Madness, as the only escape, is what I have chosen.
Madness in the sense of unrest,
Disavowal of the properties proscribing my actions
I smoke and drink to put off life
to ensnare nothingness with breath
and feel contingency take its hold on me
I want wine, furies and song to be my epitaph
and grasp at meaninglessness with two sweaty palms
I am not comfortable and never shall be
with this notion of decidedness and squalor of the mind
yet it is I
I know little of the great works and can hardly hold a pencil
This is where I meet myself, a worker, unfit for labor
exposed to existentialism and sick
I shudder, alone forever
Good things given to and wasted on me
I am death encapsulated