"Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything."

Modern day hero, our Übermensch,

fights no monsters or villains...

He knows no duty, no glory comes to him.

But still he stands, a warrior in the wave of neu-modernism.

His battlefield is the void.

His hope and his demise-- psychoanalysis.



Sit. Stare. Think.

The world around him moves, but he is still.

He is quiet.

He does not live, only imagines ...

'What. is. the. what; what may be?

Who. is. the. who; who I do see?'



Driven by emotion, change sweeps through with each new moon.

He cannot commit, so he never suceeds, but still he grows wiser as he reads.

His only truths are contradictions.

On a scribbled note, he writes:

'I dont know, I'm not sure...

No, I'm not sure about not being sure...

Sure...'

A city dweller, trapped in his house, but not his home.

In this cage, he is free.

Free to think and do as he pleases...

but where do you begin when you have infinite possibilities?



Logic lingers under folds of fear.

He lacks experience.

He doubts his being.

All that he knows, he has read in a book,

and all that he ever will create lies down in pen and pad.

Many will not read these notes, and of those that do, few will understand..

And so, they remain buried underground.

He is the underground man.

I am the underground.