Good morning.
Is morning not glorious? Is it not the great awakening of our potential?

Here is to our potential, foundering and suffocating in the fluid of its black-slicked lungs, thrusting tarred hands into our mouths and eyes. Bitter taste, bitter sight.

Here is to us, blissfully pressing ourselves into night, spilling the syrup of our eyes into the asphalt that clogs our veins, the slow Vatican chant of suicide, of smoking brass cylinders clapping our wrists in blood. Oh, but can you feel it? Can you feel that iron edge of life? What flavor! What a fantastic blend!

Here is to us, a toast to the white guardians of nothing, the keepers of no knowledge. To our jaundiced lips. Touch me none, oh speak me none: I've got a yawning grin on my throat, ear to ear; a violin slit me open while I lay twisted in the morass of my two-cornered unroom.

You read, read, you do not survive. Your eyes flicker and your hollow chest doubts, your fingers freeze and your skull shouts Wrong! Wrong! Something must be wrong!

Blindness is the only illness.