Wanton’s Retrospect

Two o’clock. Had a strange dream that any quantity multiplied times myself would equal zero. I guess that means that I am zero. It’s the dead of night and the silence is deafening, broken only by the sound of crickets and a car engine far off. In my head plays a church hymn. At times I just want to throw off the yoke of conscience and be a free animal, acting like a beast. Nothing you could do, says the panther pacing in his cage. If this is “darkness,” then the sun shines on it too in some places on earth. Sometimes I get tired of being a good boy and want to get loose with somebody. Perhaps it is excess of anything that makes for disease. What stops me now is the simple fact of my age. I’m too old to enjoy a good drunken spree anymore, so that my existence seems hollow and futile. My soul is empty of whatever drove it to such extremities. I’ve reached satiety and exhaustion at last. I’ve had my fill of everything, so now it remains but to coast downhill to my eventual death. What would I teach young people with such a lust for pleasure? I don’t know, except that I probably wouldn’t live my life any differently if I had it to do again. Anyone so likeminded should enjoy his life while life remains. The life I live now is merely a footnote to the main text of wanton excess. The good times are past, so now I may backpedal downhill. I can still enjoy a pretty face, and if matched with grace, then she stands as an inspiration for my last stages. Some people say that all endings are really new beginnings, thus with that consolation I prepare to sleep again. I note however that my rock and roll days may be over, as my soul for such things has reached a point of exhaustion, every ounce of enthusiasm spent. Come now what dreams may…


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