Don't know that there's much of anything to support in the drab, foggy ruins of my former mind. It's almost more about the aesthetics for me. It's some kind of justification to keep on going, knowing there's someone or something
out there drinking lots of red wine and probably watching TV shows about moider, like some kind of sad old lady. At least civility and rationality will always triumph against nastiness and deceit on the telly, when Angela Lansbury/Poirot/Conan get the baddies.
There's only so much that any support could do anyway. This world was just never meant for toxic queer garbage bag abominations like me. But at least some of the poisons I sampled on my way out will have been pretty tasty.
The lines between absurdism, nihilism, and just plain effects of depressive disorders (or being a pretentious jerk) can be pretty thin.