I should stop writing. Earlier in the year, or it may even have been last year, I came up with a plot for a novel. It involved Oxford Tories sexually abusing mentally-ill people. Think Bullingdon Club meets da Salo. Now, about a third done, I am going to have to shelve it. It is a minor irritation for me personally when I compare it to the vilenesses done to innocents that have come out over the last couple of months. I am beginning to worry about life imitating art. No matter what disgusting abuse of privilege and power I imagine, it invariably comes true. I need to stop imagining, lest my brainwaves act like butterfly wings.
And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep, 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, which we must steep First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep; Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.
~ George Gordon Noel Byron ~ Don Juan, Canto IV, 4.
It is thus that the few rare lucid well-disposed people who have had to struggle on the earth find themselves at certain hours of the day or night in the depth of certain authentic and waking nightmare states, surrounded by the formidable suction, the formidable tentacular oppression of a kind of civic magic which will soon be seen appearing openly in social behavior. - Antonin Artaud