Nietzscheans
find their niche. We meet them at university, supermen studying torts. They
know they know everything. No time for namby-pamby humanity. The God-is-Dead
crowd finger keyboard hollows with his wilful dictums, natural as nurture. They’re
not joiners, every Nietzschean his own man. They vomit humble pie, legends in
their own armchairs. They slump into their reupholstered niche, unlike
Nietzsche. Alpine heights were his level, just Friedrich and his mountain
storms. He notched rocks in January snow, inked jokes about lawyers, squibs on the
Number Nein. He was killed by a horse,
or a tram, one of those. Not nice.
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