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Out of context: Reply #42241
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- IAmNotMe0
Sometimes I wake up feeling like I was blasted all night by a brain furnace, branding my skin, burning my eyes, ironing my sheets. Last night was some kind of skin crawl, an artificial sleep that did nothing but push me back under the sea.
My confidence shaken, I look back: did I actually write, verbatim, the words of some Bukowski book I've not read? Could that be possible? The universe works in a twisted space, and even if logic won't ever believe it, truth will be truth. If someone named temporary_name says it's so, who am I to argue with he or she? Certainly I'm no temporary_name; I am merely not me.
One can't help but to wonder if Bukowski died, and if he did, could he be re-writing his words through me?
Who the fuck is Bukowski? Who the fuck am I?