A waxing's about a fortnight, ain't it. A waning the same.
Tonight the moon is full, and I feel empty. My heart feels empty. My head is damn near a vacuum, too. And I'm sober. Of course maybe that's the problem. It can be sobering, sobriety.
Even the word sounds hollow. So-ber. Big long-o so, oh, lazy "so?"--- plus brrr. Burr. Thoroughly no fun. One syllable barely accented over the other. Sober.
I talk as if it's a big thing for me tonight. It isn't. It's just a thing.
I guess I don't have anything to say. I have cable TV. What is there to say.
I kind of hate the gods. Don't tell them. No, they don't know---when they're plural they're not omniscient. That's not strictly by-Edith-Hamilton, but I say it's true. Admit it, it feels true. Gods busy planning how to lie to the wife about the raping, and thinking they're sure punishing disobedience by making you a pillar of salt, and falling in love with their reflections or cursing somebody to do that, I forget, is Narcissus a god or just some dude? Oh, Edith. You'd be scowling at me from the back of the paperback, wouldn't you. Could I take you to bed, Edith? I know you were one of ours. You just looked a little beyond giving a go at opening up to me, that's all. I might be wrong. But my point is, your many gods are so deliriously human they clearly don't know shit, any more than we do, any more than I do. So they don't already know how much I hate them, if you don't tell.
Come here, Edith. Kiss me. How else will I know whether I'm beyond it myself.