She said, "What is all this about the words?"
The semi-hippy woman wanted to know about my nonsense. She wanted to figure out my little misfiring brain and all its idiocracy.
"I don't know. The way I see it, the words are anger and chaos congealed. They are anger and chaos formed into a fabricated ball of incoherent coherence. The words are anger and chaos mortally immortalized--made immortal by a mortal who is already dead. They are a hopeless chance to live forever--to form a life that is immortal out of chaotic events and stinging anger. Writing is anger. Writing is fabricating chaos."
"Huh."
"Let's get another beer and listen to the music. This shit is depressing."
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