"This ordinary life is hopeless. I have no mission or strong conviction. It seems like everything I find beautiful is crying about this hopelessness, and the irreducibility of alone.

I wish I was a pervert, with something inside me that burned, and could never be made manifest. My secrets are so boring. I don't believe in art or socialism.

I am bitterly jealous of people who are good, or successful. I think romantic passion is by nature fleeing. I lie to my mother. I hate myself.

People form misguided coalitions to protect themselves from hopelessness. They meet at coffee shops, community centres, swimming pools, hotels. Sometimes a fee is paid. Enthusiasm may infect some or all of the people, but inevitably, it falls away. I hate myself and pity the others for playing the hapless, expectant dog.

Our eyes follow the game that way, waiting for the triumph. Triumph does not come, or worse, it comes and goes, and disillusionment sets in again.

-Duke and Battersby