I am not a service, he said,

but everywhere, the evidence otherwise. We are made for service, to care for all men/We are made for love, both time and again--is a song they taught us when we were young. What can I do for you? is what they say I should ask you. The misanthrope has wisened up and now tweets only about the horoscope. We swallow our anger and grow fat on it. Anger is inefficient. Nobody pays for anger. What do I tell him, that the world will not pay for his anger, no matter how sincere he actually is?

I am not a service, I say to myself, but I do not actually believe. Once I had much to give, but that was when I was young. Nobody asks what they can do for me, or if they do, I disbelieve. I tell myself I should wisen up and tweet only about the weather. I know nothing about the weather, and that is the point. I swallow my anger and grow fat on it. I do as you say because it is efficient, but it is never what I want to do. The world is insincere; that is why it disbelieves.

What are the possibilities of friendship? Of knowledge? Of love? Aren't philosophers useless? Until they become thought leaders. I do not believe thought leaders, even though I open my browser daily and dive into the ocean in which they thrive.  If not money, then wisdom; if not wisdom, then beauty; if not beauty, then what? I want to be ornamental, she said to me, when we were young. I swallowed my ignorance and grew fat on it. Now I pay for my insincerity at the gym.