Reclusivity calls. I answer, though grudgingly

Why am I a recluse?

Because the world is full of tacky shit. And I cannot stand the tacky shit. I loathe it with all I've got. Today for an adventure I stepped outside the walls of my estate to see what I've been missing, but instantly my senses were harassed by a mess of perversions, by flashing lights and bloated idiots ravenously gorging themselves on chemical foods likely spat on by a teenager. I honestly could not tell if I was experiencing a migraine or reality. Please God, let it be a migraine so it will disappear with a pill or some deep breathing.

When I came home (after a horrible trip to a "Kentucky Fried Chicken") I took some diazepam and drifted into a couched state of detached reflection, a state I know too well. (It shall be the death of me, but it is also my sinister soul's salvation). As always I thought of beauty and how it exists here, in my estate, like an owl in a tree. Beyond the tree, if the owl exists at all, it is as a killer searching for easy prey. As am I; as is beauty.

All of us are hungry for flesh but only some return to the wisdom of the tree.

Ah! I can think of beauty all day and often do! But at the moment the diazepam has turned my muscles into jelly and I am ready to dream... I shall write on beauty another time, if I--a dilettante at best, a lonely retard at worst--am up to the lofty task.

It is hot. I shall sleep in the nude.