The HATE came by again to say what up the other night, so I said what up because what else can one say. And we went out for a bit of a drink and sat and watched the torrents of snow roll through the cones of the streetlights.

And I said “come on, the HATE, there is some point to a lot of what you say, but consider the immediate life. Consider the superiority of removal. Consider the beauty of these torrents of snow in the cones of the streetlights.”

The HATE replied:

Every feeling is stupid
and every person is a contemptible jumble
of failure and badly-expressed sentiment.
The cascading snow does not excuse this.
The landscape is tarnished by these wretched motherfuckers.
There is nothing good about a drifting plastic bag.
Lust is tawdry and art is no solace.

Then we had a bit more bourbon and talked about how much we both like Aphex Twin, and I worried on the way out about how much The HATE had been glaring at everyone.