I’ve stopped working and don’t feel like budging.
Occultists say.
My longing to be whole put me into this state of useless regret.
We are content thanks to our capacity,
even as we think and feel,
for not believing in the soul’s existence.
For those like me who don’t act,
opportunity is the song of no
sirens existing; it should be voluptuously spurned
stowed high away for no use at all.
I don’t know if the world is sad or arbitrary,
nor do I care,
because I’m indifferent to what other people suffer.
Immoral behaviour is inadvisable,
for it demeans your personality in the eyes of others and makes it banal.
Opium of all silences,
unplucked Lyre,
Stained-Glass Window of distance and exile—make
me hated by men and scorned by women.