i think sound is a mode. a medium. a psychic wind that immobilizes leaves and dirt. if all i was meant to do was crank the bass, then why am i left standing with egg on my face after eating a hearty-ass breakfast before i give away my last good look and swipe my credit card through time and space. i buy light as if it were coffee, sipping on toffee flavored hot cocoa, wishing for another cig. to many. to fuckin many. if I’m on my way to death then so be it, aren’t we all just a few steps away? michelle is so pretty, and so pretty, and so pretty, how could she ever think me worthy. I’m a fuckin lunatic and fat piece of shit. i drink beer then spit it out like it was was my own God damned soul. God damn. gauging my intake, social networking is so fake, it came and promised to provide, granted, it did, and it will, and it does, but now my neighbor is a farse, way to fucking old to own a herse, should be inside of it. but I’m inside my own head, ripping around heartstrings and shit i didn’t even was in that mug. fuckin punks never told me anarchy to good to be true.