Because I Am An Inhuman Monster, I

This Was Just No Fun. I Wanted My Brain Back.

Dying Makes Everyone Weaker, Subject To Painful Insight, And Not Always Insight Into Any Kind Of Special Truth - It's Just The Approaching End That Makes People Want To Believe They Are Seeing Something In The Line Of A Great Revelation.

I Am Unlovable...i Have Tried To Involve Myself In Other People, In Relationships, And Even - In My Sillier Moments - In Love. But It Doesn't Work. Something In Me Is Broken Or Missing And Sooner Or Later The Other Person Catches Me Acting Or One Of Those Nights Comes Along.

It's That Moon Again, Slung So Fat And Low In The Tropical Night, Calling Out Across A Curdled Sky And Into The Quivering Ears Of That Dear Old Voice In The Shadows, The Dark Passenger, Nestled Snug In The Backseat Of The Dodge K-car Of Dexter's Hypothetical Soul. That Rascal Moon, That Loudmouthed Leering Lucifer, Calling Down Across The Empty Sky To The Dark Hearts Of The Night Monsters Below, Calling Them Away To Their Joyful Playgrounds.

It’s Like, Everything Really Is Two Ways, The Way We All Pretend It Is And The Way It Really Is