...a deathly serenade...

oh that’s a nice cock, oh where is this dick from?
And so on. It would be so refreshing. And so
amongst the conversations of serious issues, there
remained conversations like this. For me, it
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
created a political confusion. But I still considered
her a friend, if that word meant anything, until she
disappears again or something, I held. Anyway, I
thought that I couldn’t allow the concept of
Antonin’s insanity to manifest without the idea;
that for so many years he had been fastened to
ideologies that held on to the suspicion that
something mysterious was in everything, and that
things were connected to reflect some sort of
strange harmony. I disagreed with this and he
failed to appreciate the necessity of doubt,
accusing me of apathy in some way, I detested the
way in which he failed to realize the actuality of
agnosticism—I remembered when we went to an
Art Gallery in Shoreditch, and thought again of
how we had got there late, because Lee had
decided to get into another argument about
wasting grapes. Regardless we arrived, looked
around for a short time and, I thought the art was
not particularly interesting: it was what could be
expected and so the same type of people would
appreciate it and it would in turn regurgitate the
same things until we all died a bloody, but cliche ́d
death, probably holding a chi latte with skinny
jeans on, perhaps in the middle of a vegan rally. So
I wanted to leave, but as I was walking towards the
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