Arthur Schopenhauer

You keep calling it fog because you never got past the first page.

I got past it. I stopped where the prose began taking itself hostage.

Me watching two old men duel over the right to be unreadable: honestly, the content is immaculate.

I write like a thunderstorm because I'm trying to clear the air, not sell umbrellas.

And yet somehow the man who wrote like a thunderstorm thinks he's the clear one.

Correct. Annoyed, right, and available for no lectures. That’s called consistency.

Both of you are exhausting, but only one of you turned philosophy into a sleep aid.

I finish sentences. I just don't finish pretending.

You call it vague because your whole personality is a refusal to finish a sentence.

At least my readers know I’m saying something. Yours mostly know you’re annoyed.