Repetitive and dull and repetitive and dull.
It's the same and it's been the same and it's going to be the same
like it's always been.
I go into the record store today... it's all the same.
It's the same process, the same music, same people.
Thrills run and hide, meaning to wait but instead they die in their hiding spots like little, dumb insects.
And you're the same too.
I could pretend I don't know you,
or how you're going to act,
or what you're going to do,
or what you're going to say,
or how you're going to behave,
or how you're going to let me down,
but only surprise lately has been this strange bruise that's appeared on my leg.
This strange rainbow under my skin... like a hellish bowl of expired and shriveled Lucky Charms.
Yellow skin, purple veins, blue eyes torn open and black hearts.
And I guess Chicken-Man had a couple of things to say that made me start thinking too.
Fuck, I feel like some kind of wayward minion of hell
who stumbled away from his brethren
and now forgets what it was he was supposed to do
and what he was supposed to destroy...
so he just breaks everything
halfassedly
thinking that *ONE* of the things he smashes has to be the right thing.
Maybe I'm just set in my ways.
I shouldn't just dismiss that.
But it just seems that no one has anything left that's at all interesting to say.
Maybe I need to watch Suburbia again.
Back.