Yes, for me, it is. I am tired... tired of people, people that are so empty... people that want a trophy, like it really meant something. People that don't want to educate themselves, don't want to read books, just want pleasure!
I don't want to be part of this... I don't want to be remembered in a world like this... do you?
Poor me... I can't live alone also. I need people... but they're made of plastic.
Gandhi had to die! And what did we learn from it? Nothing. Not a thing! It's still the same shit everywhere!!
So, in the end, all I got is art. This fucking crap, art. Cause if it wasn't for it, I would do exactly what others did, and that is living alone in the nature, alone, far from anyone... and I would have to get my own food, my own medicines. So my art, or this crap I call art, is another world to me, far away from this one (the real one). Art is to me the same thing that a bottle of beer is to a drunk guy.
So fuck aesthetics. Fuck 'reality'.
Good-bye, my friend, good-bye.
My dear one, you are in my breast.
This predestined parting
Promises a meeting ahead.
Good-bye, my friend, without hand, without word
No sorrow and no sadness in the brow.
In this life, dying is nothing new,
But living, of course, isn't novel either.
From Yesenin to Mayakovsky
True people, good people, don't have chance here. They are gone. They are born dead.