Reading Kosovel, this poet dude from around these parts who wrote hard and died young. And I can't help but to think, reading him, that he knew exactly when he was going to die. He was probably a sickly kid from the get go. Old-school nerd. Am inspired by morbid, erotic lyricism in consequence. Say

Lays there anything more beautiful

On this earth

Than a combatant man

Without a shirt

Bleeding out

In my arms

Warm still only from my lust. 

I should probably go pack to reading The Book Thief. It was cheerier.