"What you may not realize is how much I truly loved her, if that's the word for wanting so much to bury your head and weep upon the coppery tufts of a woman's sex while reciting "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death," you can hardly sit on the sofa with her."
- Sam Lypste, Home Land
I can only say that I wept for hours after reading this one simple chapter from this heroic book.
I did not do it becasue I felt sad for the man in the pages. I did it becasue every morning I wake up I see this man shaving and combing his hair in the mirror as I prepare for another blood-letting at the ole' paragraph factory.
Only on this factoy floor there is not the fear of losing an eye or a hand - no, that would be far to interesting - the only thing we lose here is our soul and will to live. Bit by, ever loving bit, the gears wear on us and grind out our exsistance before us. Like pulverized meat on a brown paper sack, we wait for the hammer to fall.
Another day down the drain.
There is no glimmer of hope from this man and I think that is what makes him go. Hope is for sucekrs and underacheivers. Well, sir, I was never accused of being an under acheiver - unless you consider that Vegas whore who needed to be slapped; and bathed.
It lookes like an opportunity has opened up for you in your region. Managing Editor? If you don't take it, maybe I'll throw my hat into the ring. That would confuse the ever loving piss out of everyone. And that is what we strive for here, piss loving - or something like that.
Keep your head up old boy,
it will help when the noose finally comes down and snaps your neck.