Nomadic motivation moves the masses at midnight;
Meandering, shambling souls moaning for innovation with
neanderthal persuasion. Keep the pace past paleolithic,
and gift the gifted with a wicked sickness. Instilled hatred,
From decades of desecration. The profound **** and violation
of the womb that holds all creation, our embryo of imagination
Decaying with elation while I shift my shells to match the constellations.

-SLuR

The Oran rain patters against my home,
The wind breaks upon the house
and I lie in bed
feeling comfortably alone.

I need to sort my life, move on from this town,
Need to stop being on my own, want to give myself
away, want someone to take me
far away. I'd willingly lose myself
to another, a city or a person; the other,
Me. Is this narcissism? Can I just be happy,
Or must I change so radically
in order to escape?

The real work must begin,
This aimlessness must end before it becomes
ceaseless in its expansion. All I have are words
and melodies, moments in experience that will be lost to all
time. I might as well craft an album, and nod to all I've felt
and've left to feel. Music keeps me alive, 's the only thing
sometimes.

There's pain in me still
and I don't know how to
feel it. I don't blame anyone
except myself. I tend towards
sadness over anger, default to it.
Every morning I wake up and feel
my own judgement swallow me,
Only to spit out my dreams
and tantalize me with
undischarged tears.

Another sleepless night spent
messing with synthesizers, drum
machines and groove-boxes. Music
may have stalled my flow of words
but I dream of joining them together
and spinning songs out into the world.
I wonder when this penchant for insomnia
will create something worthy.
The storm outside is howling
and my mind drifts towards
philosophy, a thought of
pharmacophenomenology.

What of a philosophy
of psychoactivity?
What does a philosophy of drugs entail
if we are to do it justice?
Will it help us better assess the cognitive
component of substances, their suitability
for patients? Is there more to psychology
than cognition? Will it help us appraise
those supposedly ineffable qualities
of mind? Will it help us understand
the patterns humans engage themselves in?
Will it help one follow the string, the thread,
The knots and narratives that we are composed of.
These are valuable enough questions for me to justify
developing the pharmacophenomenological method.

The words we use say much about the order of things
and about our desired position in life.

They say I'm an innocent boy and perhaps
I am among the more experienced criminals.
I thought myself well-versed in the
dark-arts. There's always more to learn.
Last night I witnessed the proclivity of cathinones
to induce compulsive redosing when smoked.
My initial assessment of pentylone was off the mark
and that scene from last night stuck in my mind,
Seeing research chemical smoked off tin foil.
I did not discover this fiendishness, but
I bore witness to it, and it hammered home
how out of touch I am with a world I once lived.
I wonder if I felt the wrong sort of compassion,
But is it ever wrong to feel compassion?
Why did I feel cognitive dissonance?
Have I changed so much?
Who is it that feels these things?
So many questions. I'd quiet my mind.

These thoughts reflect much about the order of things
and my as yet undetermined position in life.

My heart twinges
and my ears roar
with the afterthought
of my actions
in the world. I haven't

believed my story matters
for some time.
There were days when I'd listen
to Buckie High by BoC
so frequently.

I lived through
that tune for some time.

Longing to connect through that
sweet nectar, the comfort of Buckfast;
The heft of a bottle that felt right
in my hand, an extension

of my body
and its beliefs.

There's too much of this city in me,
Too many memories, and
too many faces
that don't remember me.
Someone wanted my body, and it
made me remember how much I wanted to die.
It made me ask who would ever put their heart
in the hands of this bearded villain.
The struggle to be human
killed my ambition.