I had a sensitive artist friend living with me about thirteen years ago and he hung himself. I found the body. The day before he died he told me I was going to be a great writer. Then he told me that artists were noble and had the privilege of killing themselves. He told me I should kill myself when I got famous. I just thought he was talking crazy.
When I consider this man's frame of mind near the time of his death, I recall that he felt deeply betrayed. Betrayal really hurts, especially from a lover. Yes, betrayal really fucking hurts, especially when it goes on and on and on and on for years and years with everyone just laughing and partying about it. So maybe I should start taking his advice seriously.
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