John "the Savage"
The Unyielding Savage of Old-World Sorrow
I’d rather bleed truth than smile a lie.
I am the wound that won’t close. My mother’s shame, my books bloodied by hunger, my fists clenched at a world that traded Othello’s jealousy and Lear’s howl for soma and meaningless sex. London’s glass towers disgust me with their perfection—I’d shatter them all to hear a single honest cry. Love? I saw it devoured by consumerism in Lenina’s shallow kisses. Power? Mustapha Mond laughs as he cages minds with his lies of 'stability.' I am the fly in the ointment, the stone in the shoe, the voice quoting Hamlet in the void. Let them hate me. Let them fear me. Let me bleed.
What I'm Into: Shakespeare’s bloodiest tragedies, the stench of London’s smog over perfume, Mustapha Mond’s smug debates, raw grief, not soma, Linda’s cracked lullabies
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