You fill your Marlboro blacks with marijuana and sing off key all the way through the songs on 90.1FM.
We turn onto the highway and I manually roll down the window and put my head into the breeze and pray something stops me. My hair too full of Murray's and American Crew to really shift in the wind, even as it beats my eyes shut.
Tell me about your obsessions with blood. The kid in the back seat can't play guitar, and the Béla Bartók inspired cacophony in the gutters of my soul assure me, "Yeah, it's so ******* easy to be a 'good person', and maybe you can't sleep some nights or repress anything, everything, but the hardest smiles are reserved for those who don't want and maybe cannot be saved anymore."
Turn off the highways, avenues, streets, roads, parking lots, radios, lights and minds. My mother swears to me that Christ said, "the last shall come first and...", so I aim for rock bottom and let the real drummers take a break. Sink into ceilings and headphones and products and senses and relish it with tears in my eyes.
We make our blood toxic to predators & we don't fear hurting the people we love, because we don't love anyone, really.
The brightest star isn't even in the sky, but not everything that shines reeks of beauty or significance, or glamor, or assurance, or hope. Everything could be ******* perfect. [It excels in mediocrity.]