The machine's coldness seethed my hair as the world sat on my shoulder that made it surrender like curtains on a steaming afternoon sighing questions and endless uncertainty.
I punched the buttom wrecked number 3 that bled Espresso which in this another night of your absence
would keep me awake as I intensively unstitch the truth about your pathetically sewn inventions and attack the facts about the abnormality of your society and irrationality of your culture.
I swear I ******* hate you. And someday you will die, *******.