Some died of fame, some died of lack of it. Some sang themselves into a paranoid world, their songs without end, their songs without rhyme. Everybody wanted to be immortal, but mortality over came their greedy innards, tore into their evil designs and defeated their purpose. You will recognise them from their haggard looks on the avenues and the boulevards, unshaven chins, droopy moustaches, shaggy manes. They are of a different generation, now balding ancient men now, without forgiveness for their own stupid blunders. Cursing the younger generation and remembering how they cursed the old when they were themselves young.
Wrote this gibberish when sleep wouldn't come. I sit up late and key this in, stream of consciousness style (remember stream of consciousness?), to see how it will go, how it will look like. Stream of consciousness is to the mind what sleep is to the tired body. Relaxing! I haven't read all this gibberish, at least, not yet. I will do that tomorrow and see and agonise over the mistakes, the bad syntax and grammar, the anarchy of prose and would wish there was some hidden meaning to this writing as to all life, living or spiritual. I think I will stop. Apologies. Goodbye.