I sit here a picture of pathos with no photographer.
It's bullshit. It's my shit.
It's all I have.
This kindship with melancholic poets.
A used cigarette. The leftover dregs of somebody's champagne.
The most pathetic thing about it is that I think it matters.
Here drunk alone
Who cares?
If not me then who?
You?
I'm silly.
You can quantify my errors. Isn't that the basis of all tragedy?
That you can see the stupid errors?
Anyone could!! So why did the protagonist persist?
Because it was easier to wallow in pathos than to have more faith in the head than the brick wall upon which it battered.
How stupid is this? To feel heroic for feeling lonely?
But it is all I have.
I have thunk my way through it all. I have pondered late of a night with all my genius might and slept and awoken with the same damn question.
How else?
I give you my heart.
You tell me it's nice,
and I drink the dregs of your champagne.
Will you feed me upon words in thanks for words?
Why not? I do not perish.
I do not perish the thought.
I just think again.
I am pathetic but it is nothing.