Words are the only goddamn pacifier. It's only half, if not less, of the time. Listen to me, talking shit to the world like I amount to anything more than a (barely) uniquely formulated clump of star dust. I don't even know why the neurotransmitters in my brain choose to move in these directions, but I make blind assumptions that those directions are profound and somehow beautiful. Like they're charging across the plain(s) in the name of fucking manifest destiny.