No alternative

It still comes over me sometimes, of course, the thought: how do people do it? How do they get up, do their jobs, sit, sober, through the evenings without topping themselves? After tragedy, farce. After farce, what? Boredom. Deep, grieflike boredom under an empty sky. This is life, it seems to me in those moments, and nothing else: no possibility, no alternative. What’s surprising isn’t that people drink, take drugs, throw themselves off buildings, wander the streets muttering to themselves: it’s that more people don’t.

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