I see the best minds of my generation being destroyed by madness. We are decomposing too early. Our souls are dying before our bodies have time to catch up. We are silently ravenous, with a quiet craze in our hearts. It’s not quite the same as your generation, Ginsberg. We do not shriek “Holy! Holy! Holy!” as we burn. We drown soundlessly.

Overeducated, proud products of postmodernism dissolve into a lukewarm soup of ennui. They are bored ballons filled will hubris rather than helium…fragile dolls with flaking bones and hair and skin resembling wilting flowers, weighted down by indomitable wills and insecurities. These plastic girls starve to death, fantasizing about food. Former nymphets gouge symbols into themselves, the bleeding crags symbolic of their demonic depression plagued by memories of their older brothers molesting them in the living room, while their mothers tend to the bedsides of their fading fathers.

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