I just picked my nose and as far as I can tell if I keep doing it my head will cave in. I think that sums up everything: hollow. I wanted desperately to smash something up and I scratched around for a weapon. My eyes landed on a rock. Solid, I thought. So I picked it up. Weighty enough. I chucked it at my neighbours window. That'll fuck 'em up. I watched every minute motion through the air, how it turned deliciously, how it rolled enigmatically. Each inch closer to the ecstacy of destruction. Now, you know what disappointment is. You truly appreciate how it feels to hollow out, to have everything inside escape into the void without a sound, so that your core is as empty as your heart, as frigid as a soul. That rock just smashed to pieces. It was as if the glass of the window were concrete and the rock was brittle porcelain. Those fucking bits went everywhere. And I went nowhere.
John Cleveland, English poet, was born today in 1613.