Digital Wanderer

I was at the gym the other day, which is glamorously called a fitness center, but in Soviet terms — a sports club.
There, a depressingly encouraging thought crossed my mind: the only thing that makes this vile reality bearable is irony. That kind of thing often creeps into your head when you see all sorts of weird stuff around, like a bunch of kids frantically lugging hunks of metal back and forth, left and right, up and down.
Then I came home and tried to go to sleep. And that's when the continuation of the thought hit me. If there's nothing to laugh at (and just try being ironic in the dark on your bed), then you're completely fucked.
Then another thought occurred to me. Just tough it out a bit, and those vile little parasites—thoughts—will stop terrorizing my poor head altogether. And that's exactly what happened: when I, having philosophized all night like a regular Aristotle, got up at 5 a.m. and headed for the express train to Riga, all my thoughts vanished somewhere.
Therefore, no conclusion will follow from all these grandiose deductions. I overdid it.