I'm Really Shocked When Critics Get Morally

Disappear Here. The Syringe Fills With Blood. You're A Beautiful Boy And That's All That Matters. Wonder If He's For Sale. People Are Afraid To Merge. To Merge.

Rock 'n' Roll. Deal With It.

There Are No More Barriers To Cross. All I Have In Common With The Uncontrollable And The Insane, The Vicious And The Evil, All The Mayhem I Have Caused And My Utter Indifference Toward It I Have Now Surpassed. My Pain Is Constant And Sharp And I Do Not Hope For A Better World For Anyone, In Fact I Want My Pain To Be Inflicted On Others. I Want No One To Escape, But Even After Admitting This There Is No Catharsis, My Punishment Continues To Elude Me And I Gain No Deeper Knowledge Of Myself; No New Knowledge Can Be Extracted From My Telling. This Confession Has Meant Nothing.

Every Book For Me Is An Exorcism In Some Way Or Another, Working Through My Feelings At The Time.

And As Things Fell Apart, Nobody Paid Much Attention