Just two words, FUCK WORK, without any elaboration. For as soon as I begin to work to explain my ever-greater resistance to integrating into what we understand under the concept of work, I am already working. When I write, when I am trying to explain what I mean by the middle one, I already enter the dynamics, in which, in exchange for logically constructed thoughts, for insights into social events, for the energies of energy necessary for decisive speech, for effort, called thinking, for experience, Acquired through years of reading and writing, I get a fee, when, after the transfer to the ATM, I read the word 'available condition', I start to laugh only bizarrely of the situation. Laugh as laughing at those whose laughter is the last and only remaining refuge of dignity.
I know that the idea of hardening the character through work is nonsense, because the profits of the criminals are profitable. It does not matter if I become a gangster. "James Livingstone"