Living your life through a haze, spending days lay strewn naked across your hot bed listening to the same song on repeat. The hate pickling inside you, turning your blood to vinegar. Your long hair newly washed, draw back across your forehead still dripping, dampening you pillow. You can't help but pick at the scab on your knee until it bleeds dark thick tricklets of blood. Motionless with only a small wry smile licked across your face, the atompshere jabbing and stinging at your skin. You feel like a wasp trapped under a cup, gasping for your last breath, scrutinizing the world through a magnifine glass. John Hughes died, you just watched The Breakfast Club and now you're ripe in your own social denial and rebellion, you piece of filth. You are not in a good place, but its too much effort to move. "GOOBBLE GOBBLE" This is my Hymn, my mantra, the thing I lay awake at 4 in the morning for, chanting to the beating of silent drums, drinking from the loving cup. While Prince Randian lights his cigarette. I am a false prophet. The living Antichrist but you won't ever notice.
Vibes - Night Court
The XX - FACT mix
Neon Indian - Deadbeat Summer
Picture taken from the 1932 film "Freaks" by Tod Browning. No Copyright infringement intended
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