As I plod purposefully around my house I contemplate schadenfreude: experienced, projected, absorbed, or deflected, or ignored. Or glimpsed.
There are tricks and cons before we burn ourselves out with hysteria and fray our wits with gruesome machinations.
There are semblances for us to lean on, collective visions for us to intercept.
It's rather special and promising man, so don't become glum.
Cackle and drink wine. Don't cut your hair. There are wee pockets of euphoria to enmesh us.
I realise I'm a bit standoffish or pretentious at times. I also realise I use fatalistic philosophy as a crutch.
Cold days, caustic sneers. Hope blotted out, hope dampened, promises soggy and weighed down, notions crumbling across the rug.
The psychic whiplash of dismay, malingering pessimists.
Manifestations of derangement.
The American grin is a tool to blot out malaise but it can also be utilised to invoke this.
Thoughts: I like the sound of the wind. Am I cold? Should I don another garment?
I decide yes.
A seemingly banal incident is rendered with mysterious, ineffable significance.
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