I would never be part of anything. I would never really belong anywhere, and I knew it, and all my life would be the same, trying to belong, and failing. Always something would go wrong. I am a stranger and I always will be, and after all I didn’t really care.
You are walking along a road peacefully. You trip. You fall into blackness. That’s the past - or perhaps the future. And you know that there is no past, no future, there is only blackness, changing faintly, slowly, but always the same.
Some clichés don’t make sense at all, like ‘THE CREAM OF THE CROP.’ I think that cream does not come from any crop, it comes from cows, unless you are talking about a soybean crop, which you can make ’soy milk’ out of, but even ’soy milk’ is a kind of cliché, because it’s not really milk, it’s just juice that people substitute for milk and kind of looks like milk.