Brief seperations made into brief endings that I have made into a brief career. I wanted to start but then I stopped again. I hate every fucking critic whose voice echoes in my mind, because I know what you'd say, and the sad thing is you're a part of me. Fucking parasites who I know hate themselves but I can't get it in me to rid myself of the voice, and while they have no effect they are still there. One of these voices is mine. Always questioning everything. The rush comes slowly and the voice quiets, but I know it will not last. This is repeating. This is the same shit over and over, and the very thought drives me fucking insane. Everyone's so fucking special but everyone hates themselves. Echoes call you. Only echoes call you. Echoes bouncing off of your one bedroom five star hell experience extravaganza prison with beautiful 52" of plasma heat. When I talk like this it embarasses you. He must be insane. Fuck you. And every god damn thought that has been put into my head. Even a screwdriver removes nothing. Again. The rush comes but this time it's even shorter. The voice gets louder when the rush removes. Nothing continues. I can't start again. I can't remember why I began. It's the same fucking feed through my head every god damn night and it never quiets. Anxious, yes, terribly so. I go. Oh no, enteringpopmode every fucking word will have to rhyme, the slow associations, hammer at the keyboard, it might release you, magnetized, first thought, get it out, you're slowing down, losing, it's going to catch you. Sleep. 24 hours at a time if you are isolated. Haven't gotten that good at killing myself yet (but to live!). But I'm strengthening. Soon I won't need anyone. Just flickers. Flickers on a screen all day. I trade currency in a game of chance you see, and I've found a way to trade less and receive more. That's how I get credits in my local banking institution. (The SaddesT Thing Is He's Sober). What do I use the credits for? Well, why women you see, bright women, perfect tits, perfect dresses (and I will be there later oh yes yes yes yes you). She will wear high heels like my favorite fucking porn stars, she'll hang on my arm like fucking Beyonce does to Jay-Z, I'm hot shit kid, why, because I can replicate one of 10,000 images I've identified with that has been put into me over the last 20 years of my sad fragmented fucking instutionalized sadist capitalistic-designed life. I like this image. I'm successful don't you see? I have it. The three things you need. When I talk people listen, because they trust my banking institution has a great many credits. Take it in again. There is no high this time. I'm just violent. It feels good. I'm not going to say this feels real, like every other fucking worthless white boy suburban band that mistakes teenage angst for real feelings on the earth before they cash in on their brand like no different than Sony, with that cool video that has tints of Japanese anime to APPEAL to the Japanese market and the lead singer wears Versace shit so the Italians know where it's at we're worldwide motherfucker and once the Arab market finally gets to be as Amerikan as us we'll attack them too although I haven't figured that pART OUT YEt. But yeah, as I was saying, it doens't feel real. It feels very very right. They see people who see those things at that age can't regulate aggression. And that makes me happy. I can't regulate it. I have an excuse. Excuses are nice. They will be in the courts. Whoah, this one hits, I wish it was always this good. I remember when it was this good. When I felt this naturally. Oh wait, I never felt this naturally, always was tense, always was anxious, it was never right, I was never right. But I smile now, because somehow I've figured out how to keep this shit together, and when I focus I'm fucking there man, fucking more than anything, anyone. You got criticisms? I don't give a shit. Same people telling me how fly everyone was but the white boy, but the white boy got you dead now. Worst thing complex still hasn't left. Inferiority to God complex. Squash you like a fucking bug. Like the parasite you are. Deaden. Yeah, there, you, feel it, come, relinquish, you, feel it, come, its not there anymore. I figured it out. I won the game. The battle was against myself, not just in the year 1984, it was always a battle versus myself. I've won. Yes. I get it now. I've replicated. I've become me. The perfect me. I use the aggression to get more credits. To stifle you. To accrue. What it do, take like that, be like that, feel like that, till you are that. You get it? Or is there something else? Can I bleed out everything? Can I really do it? It's not there anymore.