[Last time we were here, my name was EP. Now, the veracity of even my most fundamental beliefs lies within the ? (mine). Now, even Paul Prater wouldn't hesitate to hit me. (In fact, he's first in line.)
There are certain things I will never be, because I simply want them too much. My shameless bracketeering over the last month? Factory-fabricated. (It is, after all, a mere looking-glass that stands behind the casket.) I needed to be Paul, all flesh and blood and disdain for my contemporaries. Or, better, I needed to hear Paul, needed Paul to be heard. I needed to inhale the ovations meant for him, and bow off-screen with the modest relish of a martyr choosing to be misunderstood.
But Paul is not real. I am.
Fuck this cursory circuitous bullshit, let's just descend onto these goddamn brass-tack jackasses.]