I don't know why I do this any more. Most things, really, but this in particular. I'd be better off sending postcards to random strangers. It would be more personal in a way, and the responses to them would likely be very interesting. As I write it now, I like the idea. It is very, very intriguing.
"Hello, You have been chosen to receive this rare print as part of a far-reaching project exploring the the romantic and the phenomenological implications of shared meaning on a lonely planet."
Something like that. Jesus! Can you imagine getting that in the mail? It would really shake up your day if not more.
I'd be in jail in less than a month.
It is a shame, though. Everything can land you in jail now. Everyone is under suspicion.
"What are you in for kid?"
"They suspected me of being a little strange, they said."
"He-he. Ain't we all, kid, ain't we all. What's your name, anyhow?"
"Kafka. Franz Kafka."
"Really? I can see how that might land you in trouble, a name like that and all. You really do seem a bit off you know."
I'm tired now and just want to make it to the weekend so that I might collapse. That is a hell of a way to live, but it is my life. It is very, very time consuming, really, all this trying to make meaning on a lonely planet. Sometimes I just want to go along with things. Maybe I'll just go along.
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