„Wovon wir reden ist unerforscht. Wir leben nicht. Vermuten und existieren aber als Heuchler, vor den Kopf gestoßene...“
They say he doesn't contribute to society - while allowing that without consumers, community's lost. His expenditure is strictly direct, for immediate satisfaction, or the drowning of displeasure. The revenue he generates is a begrimed drop of copper in a bucket of abandoned bullion, and the public spoils are his soiled mattress.
Is he lying dying? I tell myself that his disembarrassment has been tried and retried, far short of deliverance. I tell myself he's fading too slowly, my concern'd be wasteful, redundant.
I recall being told by one's professed personal perplexity that this miserable jerk worthy of that of which he has no sense seems to show no such thing, seems to know no such shame, the only thing of which he was so apparently worthy.
He called him a bum. He sounded so miserable.
„Es ist eine Frage des Zweifels, des Misstrauens, und der Ungeduld.“ T.B.
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