I Feel Like I’m Eighty Years Old.

The Chicken's Still Dancing The Chicken Won't Stop

I'm Here, Got No Choice. But You, You Should Be Telling People.

No One Survives Life.

I Am The Beast At The End Of The Rope.

I Crave White On White And Black, But My Thoughts Race In Glorious Technicolour, Prodding Me Awake, Whipping Away The Warm Blanket Of Invisibility Every Time It Sears To Smother My Mind In Nothing.