Why do I write? Why do I write to you? Who the hell are you anyway, stranger? I write you all these damn letters and you’re never going to say anything back because you don’t exist, you’re a figment and all I’ve ever been doing all this time is talking to myself. ‘Cause I don’t want to talk to anyone about all this stuff, people like me don’t ‘talk’, we write stupid letters for nobody to read. What does it even matter if I write or don’t write? It doesn’t affect anyone and who knows, I might die tonight if I get lucky, a nightmare might just off me like all the others that have died so easily before. And no one would give a damn because they just want to be entertained, they just don’t want to think—need to think— because every distraction is easily within their grasp. What’s the point of thinking, of writing, of doing anything? How wonderfully depressing and pessimistic but you know what, I don’t care. Would you look at that, I’m still addressing you. Still writing. What a farce. Here’s a thought- I’m done.
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Souvenir's Of Self
Ciencia FicciónIn the future people are always looking for the next big thing in entertainment and Joe's father gives it to them. It's a drug/machine combo that allows dreams to come into reality. The technology is stolen a few years later and is modified allowing...
