/lit/ - Literature

How do you manage to reconcile your hedonistic needs and your sense of morality? I dream of girls sitting in the moonlight, but in the branches above squats a ghostly skeleton and grins at me knowingly. I feel like we humans are family - but then how can I enjoy when every moment is wrested from a dying friend?

Books that explain the purpose of existence?

Juggling so many lies to hide that I am a failure is exhausting, and I've been doing it for so very long. I started laughing aloud while walking around aimlessly pretending to go to school earlier reflecting on this, how silly and stupid the effort is, as though there's any hiding the fact I am almost 30 and still live with my mother or have spent a decade doing a 4 year degree. Who doesn't know that cares to know? Who could possibly care to know now? Concern or rebuke from my mother must be more out of habit than sincerity at this point, yet I'm afraid of her. And I've been afraid my whole life, and my whole life has passed me by in my cowardice.

It feels unreal to dwell on it, sometimes I can hardly believe that this worthless life is real, why would anyone do this? And what could anyone possibly do next?

>your books arrive and they've got bent corners and dented spines

>>12020246
Holy shit you're a pussy, enjoy dying as a disgusting old man who can't even shit without help.
Some prefer the drama of suicide over the pathetic "natural" death.

Is there any way that I can get anyone to Zippyshare or something me up a copy of Edward Albee's "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"? I've been hunting for fucking ever, and everything everywhere seems to be down.