The Truth Is . . . You

Everything Is Still Falling Apart.

In The Big Factory Of Perfecting Human Souls, The Earth Was Kind Of Tumbler. The Sale As The Kind People Use To Polish Rocks. All Souls Come Here To Rub The Sharp Edges Off Each Other. This Isn't Suffering. It's Erosion.

Am I Sleeping? Have I Slept At All? This Is Insomnia.

His Saliva Tasted Like The Wet Dicks Of Ten Thousand Lonely Truck Drivers.

I'm Working Harder Than I Have Ever Worked In My Entire Life, But What The Hell, My Life Is My Job Now, And My Job Is My Life And That's The Way It Should Be.