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Sort of liberal, melancholy, pissed off people, may like this. Well, lets be honest, nobody's going to like all of it. He kept screaming, to stop making fun of his syndrome, but nobody ever made fun of him, at all. But maybe, just maybe, someone, somewhere, will be compelled, in a way, I know not how, to surpass this, to find true clarity, in a world that won't allow them to. Roach, reach, blow, oops. I’m in the sideshow, hear the barker call it out. And we'll all rejoice, and the blind will see, because there's actually something worth looking at. Please don't call me selfish, please don't compare me to him. You see, I've never met your friend, and deconstructionalist literature is all I ever read anymore. So don't lick his feet, as if the dust of this town tastes better than yours. What am I getting at? I've no idea. Someone is honking their horn outside my house right now. The exuberance and apathy, somehow these are the new yin and yangs, of what’s happening these days. Sentimentality is dripping all over my fingers, and onto my pants. He stops short of jumping over the boot, because it's all been said before in a fairy tale, that turned out not to be not so depressing after all, given what we've been through. Pointing at the animals, and pointing to the way out, doesn't make them free. Actually, I don't believe that this is going to be anywhere near through, when the initial lease runs out. I don't trust you yet, thus, I can't shave, not really, well, lets come back to this. She used to just lay around the house, in the nude. Yes, I'm as phony as the next man, but it bothers me. Slash all of the truth out. None of us know what to do. Chop this into bits. They know how to live, and screw, but only amongst themselves. It’s stupid, but most things, are. Nibbling on pens, and whatever else is lying around, something to do with guns, and posted no trespassing signs. The white sheets, good-bye, sonic waves were colored (to only block the entrance). Is this in code? Yes, but, you interpret. What is philosophy? Well, ultimately, I'm unsure, but it's all over the floor of my room, in every possible medium. Another phase, left incompletely peeled. The crying, or the repetition, what made you put down the gun? This is comfort, the squalor is only in our heads. There are inexplicable parts of all of us, that need to suffer. Put Monty in a box. All this white space, is a shame. Now, you know that you can't use a product name, without first asking permission, don't you? Always more to change, jumping off the top of the roof, head first, but that’s only one story. Instead of fucking others, please yourself. Binary blips, got me thinking of New Age music, and porcelain faced girls. Soon, I will understand, that there is nothing to understand. Mailed out, no reply, we’re all stuck, stuffed, fagged, fucked, like the people in the long anticipated, autopsy photos. The older I get, the more perverted, as well. This is who 'the hidden' are, this is where they hide. Will he, or won't he? During the shock wave suicide, I suddenly discovered, dance track disco beats, in my head. I must have thought I was what’s his name. Dive for the shag carpeting. Timed, he is still attempting to catch his breath. Purple colored monster, heads up the pack, but is stupid. Ongoing dementia, seems like yesterday, this is an art project. Forgotten dogma, see it in the soup bowl, broken electric can openers, litter the vacant lots here. Facetious, put it in quotations, walk the line between good and evil, trip, explode. Locked in the bathroom for two hours, the first impression. We don't, we can't; what they do, do that. Eat with your fingers, bag of tricks empty, throw paint balls at the 4x4. Twittely fingers, he's no warrior, lurch for the two gallon jugs, air mattress sex fest. Drum your fears away, your manic-depressive illness, drink a cold diet soda, spill it in your lap, all of it, over and over. The cap and gown sad occasion, I want to flush, I will not put the seat back down. You eyeball me with organic constructions, simple, two syllable, finky carports. Lighthouse keeper, my dream job. Sunlight though overcast, fistfighting with the cardboard Einstein, slamming into walls, bound for the floor. Feel the bewilderment?