in a similar vein, my favorite Bukowski poem was a good description of a lot of the addiction and madness and depression and isolation I saw in a lot of my friends back around 2010, and some in myself as well. Some people had it from drugs, others from abuse, others from just fucked up brain chemistry. It resonated with all of us:
Alone with Everybody by Charles Bukowski
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill