Was he thinking about his parents? Or was he just too selfish and only thinking of the shame his capture would bring him as the armies invaded Berlin?
In 1961, I wonder what Ernest Hemingway was writing about before he pulled the trigger.
Was he sitting down in his spring yellow house in the Florida Keys watching the sunset? Perhaps he was drunk, tossing back mojitos.
In 1890 was Vincent van Gogh staring at his firs impressionist piece? Was he painting himself? Was there paint on the gun that shot the bullet into his skull, shattering his brain?
What did Sylvia Plath cook in her oven before she gassed herself in 1963? Maybe banana nut bread? Perhaps it was simply blueberry muffins with a streusel topping?
1941, Virginia Woolf drowned herself. As many times as i've read her writing, i cannot be sure as to why she does this.
Kurt Cobain, 1996... shotgun wound to the head. Was he trying to escape his nightmares? Or was the world just too much for him?
Jon Dough, 2006, American pornographic actor. He slipped his head through a noose and jumped off the chair. Was he sick of fucking whores? Was he tired of being lusted for his body? Did he think he could ever be loved?
Cleopatra, 30 B.C. Even the Queen of Egypt induced a snake bite to her neck. Did she not know how to govern and please the people of her once great land? I guess riches and praise still weren't enough.
Vincent A. Laudato, still living, cutter, faggot, social conformist. Too bad I cannot and would not ever end up on a list like this. No one would ask why I couldn't be me anymore.
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