I know the stuff is poison, but I neck it anyway. It’s a psychic shield against the vicissitudes of strife. What a happy delusion to carry around in my head. A soft and fuzzy lie I like to bathe in. Get me to my bed where I can adopt my cloak of dreams. I don’t care what shape the world is in – I don’t want it banging on my door 24/7. There’s a place I lay my head where I get the peace that grants me immunity from the combine.
What’s in a man’s blood that he offers himself for a slave? Is it some pernicious form of anaemia which thins him out and bleeds him sallow? Is it the herbivore instinct of curtain twitching quislings who endure a life of vicarious pleasures and shared disappointments? I’ve had to turn my back on the gut churning spectacle. The whole scene and its protagonists sicken me to my bones. I’m happy on the outside of that shit – even if the isolation sometimes drags me down. The undertow is strong in these latitudes and men have been known to drown in sentimentality. I have a cup for such occasions and it brims with heavy liquor.