So long
Bohemians are self-styled outsiders who mistake detachment for depth. They worship authenticity while living on contradiction: craving attention yet scorning convention, calling indolence freedom and melancholy art.
Their cool, distant manner is a shield for insecurity, a pose of knowingness that hides how little they actually believe in. They drift between ideals and indulgence, convinced that to feel too much or commit too firmly would betray their cultivated mystery.
Our specific Bohemian adored himself through poetry, cloaked ego in holiness, sold melancholy as enlightenment. People still call it wisdom because it rhymes.
Leonard was more interested in loving himself than loving others.
To love himself, he needed strangers to love him first. That’s fame.
I suspect, despite all his supposed spiritualism, he left this earth no wiser than when he came into it.
That’s true of many of the artistic matyrs. Thanks, cunts.
offshore westerly 