Martin Streek is dead

He was really just a voice I heard every other Saturday night, but now he's gone and killed himself and I feel a deep sense of regret. Why? Maybe because I automatically assume that suicide indicates hidden depths. Fuck the happy people with their big houses and good jobs. Give me the depressed, the heartsick, the melancholy. Maybe I identify with the losers of this big shitty game, or maybe I just respect someone with the balls to check out before his designated time. Either way, I'm drunk, and he killed himself. Maybe that isn't sad? Nah, it probably is.

In other news, got me a new job. A fancy one at that. Sellin' me some expensive suits and t-shirts. It's retail, so it reinforces my general awfulness as a human being, but it seems like it will pay ok, and I get to pick up some sick duds along the way.

I got inspired (by way of drink) last night and hammered out 700 words of pretty-decentness. Nothing earth-shattering yet, but I know where I want to go with the motherfucker. Should have the whole shebang done by next month. Here's hoping.

In honor of Martin, I suppose - some Lorca:

Agony, agony, dream, ferment, and dream.
This is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
Bodies decompose beneath the city clocks,
war passes by in tears, followed by a million gray rats,
the rich give their mistresses
small illuminated dying things,
and life is neither noble, nor good, nor sacred.