I'm filling boxes with my past, trying to decide what has present-tense value. I have filled nearly five milk crates with scattered poems, unfinished essays and maniac drawings. What is the meaning of all of this? What happens to it when I die? When I move, I love to go through the apartment as if I am someone coming to clean everything up after the funeral. I like to look at it all through a stranger's eyes.
Thousands and thousands of pages. A shitty job. Mind full of obsession, mad love and art. I am Henry Darger reincarnate, aspiring toward something a little more Dostoyevskian.
1 comments:
I seriously doubt your work will be lost and uncared for after you're gone.
You can leave some for me.
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