Friday night. Even the bottle of wine, my silent accomplice, refuses to cooperate tonight. Wine, whose brutal alchemy banishes the demons from my psyche long enough for me to bear my own work. Wine, which does not dull my intellect but sharpens it to the fine point with which I write.
Solitude, for me all is solitude. Solitude, which compels me to write my subversive tale, my gift to the moralizing monsters, with their pinched faces and pious disdain. Even sunlight assaults me. I do not find refuge in banal pleasures anymore; everything that society offers me to assuage this divine, superlative loneliness mocks me with its oppressive benignity. Baudelaire understood, he knew the profound ennui of the creative individual in the modern world.
Finally, success! I have managed to wrest the cork from its bottle. I pour my holy unction, lift my glass, and allow the scent to fill my nostrils. Once again, I must perform the eternal sacrament of the writer. Once again, I must ascend the heights of creative inspiration...
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