The ceiling fan spiraled out of control and landed on the head of a lost cause.
The lost cause was knocked out instantly but recovered, only to learn that his cause was indeed lost after all.
That is the beginning of the end of a non-important, metaphorical entry into a diary of misunderstood vignettes. So strange how we almost forget that there is someone behind it.
But the truth is that I don’t even know where it all comes from. I only know where it will end up—but sometimes I don’t know even that.
So I say to myself, as a sit in a library typing away nonsense that earns me neither fame nor fortune, but which is as necessary to me as food. At this point, the lost cause can only stagger and fall, but then he will have to either get up or lay there and die. As for the ceiling fan? It is just a random act of violence, committed by an inanimate object for the purpose of setting up my analysis of the pointlessness of existence.
Still, I suppose that is why I write. If my existence is pointless, then I have to occupy my time one way or another. That’s the truth: sad, but true.