I saved this as a draft on my phone last night when I was drunk
The irony of this is in the fact that no one knows the thoughts compiling in my mind. No one would guess, no one could. I can read everyone in this room; I can see through their phony facial expressions and verbal implications. You won’t know, and you don’t care. But the embrace I feel when I’m so in depth in the idea of reality is more discerning than Bukowski’s best work.
Whaaa?
