I wrote a novel about a serial killer…

Who is not interested by serial killers? I want a best friend serial killer

In boredom, in domesticity, I am Raskolnikov living onwards…

Here’s a short excerpt from my personal favourite of my own writings.

Twenty-First Century Mankind Blues

By

D. David Croot

-

I am not human.

Never have been.

I shall prove it!

— — — — — — — — — — — 2 — — — — — — — — — — —

“If I were truly unique there’d be no way to relate to the world.”

I suppose I should give examples, life being a journey an all. I have had friends in the past. But I have learnt that proximity is merely friendship.

Simply linger around someone longer enough, whether they be the cool kid in a leather jacket at school or Johnny Depp, you’re bound to become indebted in some sort of quasi-relationship-and-happy-smiles-group.

I walk a lot nowadays, it helps me think. Although why I think is unbeknownst to me. I can’t unthink or even stop the process so I revel in it to some degree. It brings me peace when nothing else makes sense too me.