but a hammer with which to shape it.” —
Bertolt Brecht (via magictransistor)
A man dies. A man dies and I think, “Who is this man?” A man dies and I think, “Who is this man to me?” Man dies and I think, “What does this man’s death mean to me? What does anybody’s death mean to anybody?” I try to sleep. Can’t sleep. Sweaty sheets. Toss and turn. Pull sheets off. Pull them up again. Off. On. Turn pillows over and over and over. Get outta bed. Open window. Listen to sounds of city. The city howls traffic. Sirens in the distance. Dogs barking. People laughing. People screaming. Strange people. Strangers. Strangers drunk and stumbling and slurring lies to each other trying to get someone else to do something with them like come home with them and pretend they mean something to them until tomorrow sheds the harsh light of truth to them. Cars speeding off. A heavy humid air like a fist choking you. You leave the window and drag your cement feet to the kitchen and turn the faucet on and let the water run a bit til it cools down and fill a glass with cold water and drink it down and let the water run down your throat and feel the pins and needles of the cold cascade into the center of you and you drink and you drink and you drink and then you stop and turn and look out the window again and it is night and somewhere in all that darkness and city and screaming and lying and fighting and yelling and sweat and sex and love and hate and fury and sorrow is a man dying and you wonder and you wonder and you wonder but you will never know.