Bukowski’s Post Office
Anybody who writes, writes for a reason. There is something they want to communicate, some thing or some image that they want the world to have of them. They have a personal thing/agenda/philosophy that they want to put out in the world. Forget professional writers, even a random person on Instagram sharing a story or a reel on his/her/(hundred other pronouns that exist nowadays) profile has something personal to share with the people that follow him/her/(etc). Charles Bukowski seems like an exception. At first instance, he might come across as a pessimistic, 'world-is-gonna-end', 'I-hate-everyone' kind of a writer who wants people to perceive him as a Dostoyevsky-type of a guy. But no, he is just writing to write. He is just smoking to smoke. He is just working to work. He is just drinking to drink. He is just earning money to earn money. He is just eating to eat. He is just having sex to have sex. He is sailing through life because he is sailing through life....