The literature that makes it now, pities itself.
The great literature we read never pities itself.
The writers of great literature that we read surely pitied themselves.
The writers of great literature that we read hid this pity from their readers.
The writers of literature now make diary entries of pity surrounding ‘I,’
citing the more clever writers of great literature.
The writers of great literature feared that we would see them as writing diary entries of pity surrounding ‘I,’ only citing the more clever writers of their great literature.
The writers of great literature were clever.
The writers of now play at clever.
Is what they want from me to publicly grieve?
Fetishize the death and illness that life commands alongside sunrises?
It wouldn’t be hard – look!
There is horrid loneliness in people we love!
Death leaves daughters to suffer!
Cats die and we do not like it!
The writers of great literature had cats and daughters and lonesome lives.
The writers of now have cats and daughters and lonesome lives.
The writers of great literature were clever.
The writers of now play at clever.
Notes from a Homemade Throne 