A tale of madness, of misfits and mayhem and music, of sex and desperation, of self-medication and voluntary insomnia; among all that, redemption stopped mattering.
My obsession with the past was like a dead fly, because just a few things were ever really related to the "old times."

No questions. Something happens, then something else happens, and above all else, whatever is in our control is dwarfed by what isn't.
If I could have it back, all the time that we wasted, I'd only waste it again. If I could have it back, you know I would love to waste it again, waste it again and again and again.

No danger, only placidity in a land that embraces me when I am present and is left unmarked by my departure.
When I finally get myself together, I'm gonna get down in that sunny Southern weather. I'll find a place inside to laugh, separate the wheat from the chaff.

I feel like I owe it to someone.

It's so post, it's pre. Don't pretend you're not the poster child for our experiments. Forward, backward, into the fourth dimension, toe the line straight through the Scary Door, no one can hear you scream here.
Step up, step up, step up, step up. It counts in how you show it counts, it counts, it counts. I'm counting.
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