Sick of mediocrity. People - fuck. No need to try, WHY would we? Pleasure automation, questing for stimulation, goals eroded to arms length musterings, I came to in the middle of the night clicking my ipod angrily at the tv, surrounded by plastic bottles of water, a ball of gravity strobing rapidly inside my gut. Am I looking out with my eyes, projecting a reality constructed within my mind into a field of vision, or am I taking in the world as a vacuum to light, my own pupils tiny twin black holes, consuming matter in an insatiable purge of FEED ME? Give unto me this world, as I know the universe needs me, for without my desires, who does it serve…but the emptiness of itself. I bang the living shit out of melancholiac 80’s pop, and it means absolutely nothing. It never did.
