This evening I would like to write something desperately powerful and beautiful. A piece that will make the reader sigh with their very soul. Sigh with sadness and loneliness. Sigh with a hopeful elation, with a wonder at all our good fortune.
I would like to include a breathtaking photograph that took my breath as I took it, as I breathed.
I would like it if this writing that I write, this picture from which I draw, were not soaked in sentiment and self-pity and mawkishness. I would like it if I did not come across as a scrawny self-serving dickhead.
I would like it to be simple.
But you know what? Italy lost 3-0 to that pack of orange cunts and someone else has that beautiful simplicity shit covered. So I'm going to sleep instead.