Somewhere deep within me there lingers a world in which I genuinely relate to—and even like—most of those around me, and they in turn to me. In that other life I am happier, more gregarious, more generous of spirit. I cannot shake the conviction that I was born in the wrong time and place; such scant appreciation as I have known only confirms it. To be unreservedly kind in this age is folly of the highest order. No more. I will hold nothing back about how weary I am of everyone and their endless nonsense. Someone must begin to grow truly angry. I only hope I shall not be forced to bear this burden for much longer, and may one day find some other place in time and space where my own people dwell. But so long as I remain here, I will not dissemble, nor feign contentment with this travesty or with those who populate it. —Arthur Newhook, 6 October 2025.
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