We are slaves to living in a certain way, slaves to our jobs, tethered to one place on earth.
We want change. We don’t want to be bored. If we were removed from this earth, it would make no difference to anything whatsoever. We want that fact to change.
We dream and dream.
“We are not special. We are not crap or trash, either. We just are. We just are, and what happens just happens.”
“You’re trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you.”
“We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.”
“For years now, I’ve wanted to fall asleep. The sort of slipping off, the giving up, the falling part of sleep. Now sleeping is the last thing I want to do.”
“You are not your job, you’re not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis. You are all singing, all dancing crap of the world.”
“You are not special. You’re not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else. We’re all part of the same compost heap. We’re all singing, all dancing crap of the world.”
“You will become a statistic.”