It does not get much more self-pity-like than this… yet I quote:
“The glass of Cabernet promises redemption from this absurd journey,
´softness and sweetness´, the menu seduces,
Thus I concede, the soft, sweet, lone drink a balmy farewell to this botched three-day time-warp of desolation. Forward, forward, unto darkness, the past is no more.
I vaguely recall a troubled youth paved with cinematic fantasies of shattered dreams,
resentful resignation, rugged flashes of women in trench coats crossing the streets at rush hour
as it poured on the metropolis,
taxis and puddles and traffic lights,
bad hair, big teeth and a harsh fashion sense weaving the alibi for such anonymous humility, such irredeemable failure. It had all gone wrong in these women´s lives, yet their quiet bitterness was ultimately so tender, so alluring, it begged to be embraced.
I did lust after these women, intense innocence and doomed faith, as one would expect. I extracted comfort out of their failure while vengeful supremacy boiled invisibly under a very slow fire. Football and all, you know.
Now I have come in despair, in search of hedonism and abandonment,
and I leave just as troubled,
wardrobe renovated, the soul just as shattered, I now know
l have been that woman all along.
I shed the trench coat as often as possible, in obsessive want of indifference, in luscious need of acceptance.
No amount of praise will bring this woman joy, no amount of tenderness will bring her peace. She breeds her own downfall, endlessly fascinated by the clouds that patiently build up the darkest shade of grey and the rain that pours and pours and pours without repent.
My life-time project shall now become the meticulous murder of this creature, the surgical extraction of this private black hole. One day the clouds shall dissipate, the metropolis shine. For a very first time, for one gorgeous last time. “