Skepticism, cynicism, nihlism.
I’ve swallowed enough of that poisoned water to get me in trouble. Now, I’ve got these lumps in my throat and I’m pretty sure it’s cancer. The rich doctor thinks I should het my tongue taken out. “Save my life, anyhow,” he tells me.
And you tell me what’s the point of a life without a voice? I’m a homo sapien sapien and that means physically, I’ve already lost the evolutionary race. Not even in last place – we didn’t even finish before the banners ame down and the tents were all packed up. I mean bottom of the fucking barrel we are. So, don’t think I’d like to keep on in tbis ramshackle body with the couple of tools nature:s left me.
Language is one. Spiritual sensibility is the other. Put them boh together and you’ve got a story. That’s all this bllod and bone doll is worth and I know it.
I’ll stick to what I’m passably good at. And if its cancer and I’m dead tomorrow?