GENRE.

Typed this out in between the panic of getting ready to go out somewhere, because thoughts erupt when they're least expected to. I remember the panic, but I cannot remember the place I was headed out to. Strange.

A text to a friend, influenced by Felix Groeningen's Beautiful Boy.

I find the dead remains of rain more valuable than the rain itself. So much glory, so much wrath not viable enough. Watching films where the lovers part their ways, films where parents fail to bring up good kids despite everything, stories about daughters losing faith in their families, drug addiction novels where rehab is not fruitful, prima ballerina not being able to twirl like a tulip again, poems about scholars failing at their tests. On people losing in that one sphere of life they are supposed to be good at. On writers and their rejected drafts. On pathetic pain. On shivers. On pillowcases soaked in tears and slimy mucous. On despair. On ordeals. On grief. On loss. On failures. For what else is more real than failure?