subliminal messages that come through the radiators, radio signals from space, and yet I can't place that feeling I'm feeling and it feels like it's all slipping away.
old at twenty four and every door shut in your face.
Too many beggars and not enough time too many bodies stretched out on the line and not enough time to give them a hand up, hand out, hand of friendship, is this what living's about?
one cannot helpΒ being drunken and stupefied when once it was normal but now it's being gentrified and they call me a halfwit, but Christ on a broomstick look at the lunatic fringe.
on a lighter note, you can all come to my funeral, but I won't attend I'll be reading the subtext in the messages they send and that's a full time job.