He had fallen in love so many times, and never done anything about it. And when he had, they’d not wanted. And when they’d wanted, they’d fucked it. And when they’d fucked it, well … hell … they’d fucked him (but not as you’d like).
It was difficult to fathom: was he mad?
Maybe he was. Or …? Well, either that …
Or maybe it was simply he looked in the wrong places.
Or maybe he just was racing to hit a finishing line which was always there to diminish him.
Maybe the world and its mother were against him, as much as another.
And maybe not.
Any maybe never.
And maybe always.
And maybe just sometimes.
And so he said to himself: “Maybe it is just that the world, and its uni-verse of rhymes, is intended – is built up and is bolted down – to fine me bad, and poor, and sore, and is that whore which tends to unmend any attempts to get my [w]hole.
“And maybe that’s it. (And maybe I’m it.)”
Even so, and even when discounting the fact he was no longer as mad as behatted men of style and wit once made out – and those men of coarse twit and twat, and that, and all – and those men and their many and various and varied approaches of roaches and cocks … and even so, he still wasn’t clear what was going on at all. In this life, or another. With this woman or that.
With no woman and nothing.
With no thing, and what.
A strange life indeed is the life of low-level strife.