Love Thy Fellow Man

Really. Do it. Love thy fellow man. Not for God's love, not for cocaine. Because we are all sagging sacks of skin that poop, masturbate and die. God's image? Maybe once in a lifetime. Otherwise it's boredom, boredom, beastliness, boredom. Talk for hours. Talk religiously. Convention? Ten years from now we'll all look retarded. A hundred years from now? We can't even imagine. Convention is the putrid shell of the times. Socrates, Jesus, a caveman, me and Napoleon have this in common: we are sagging sacks of skin that poop, masturbate and die... and probably love, hate, try, fail, think, act stupid. The rest is window-dressing, really. Nationality? Who remembers the Armenians? Who remembers the Visigoths? They may be in your blood, even my blood, but we don't remember. Maybe they survive in the way you glance furtively? Every thought has been thought before. I'm saying nothing that hasn't been thought probably five, six, seven times before. All I can do is restate it in the current idiom. Love thy fellow man. As ugly as they are, so are you!