By the end of the year I had caught a seasonal virus or bacteria. I cough a lot. So I write the last post of the year sick. For weeks I've been amused by the thought that my name and a date pair below it is 1978-2023. I'll die next year. Hello, I've already done what I wanted to do in my life! That means I can die in peace and you can do with my spiritual legacy as you see fit. I don't fucking care. I'm tired of talking to you. This is worse. To talk intelligently you would have to think, but you are so afraid that you are incapable of thinking, and so caught up in the consumer frenzy, so wrapped up in the shackles of necessity that you are prisoners of terror with an ugly future. There, that's the truth. Do what you can with it. Yes, nothing? Because you are prisoners. Why the fuck should I speak nicely? I've been talking so nicely to you for over ten years that you didn't even notice. You don't react to what doesn't hurt. Well, I hope the weather extremes of 2023 will be painful enough to make you chew off your handcuffs and finally act, to curb your own mindless greed! I should be more precise, but between two coughs, that's as much as I can manage. I prefer to mind my own business. One thing that life has finally beaten into my head is that I really only have power over my creative power. I can manage my own power. I have absolutely nothing to do with you, but nothing. I have no need to chase noble aims and waste my kindness unnecessarily. I moved to a warmer climate. Only in my mind for now, but I'm already feeling better despite the illness.
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