You'll notice the time at the bottom on a Saturday morning, and I feel quietly absorbed. Dead Poetic's "The Dream Club Murders" is on my headphones, and I think it's buzzing me with sonic madness. It feels good. Is that hard to understand?

Do you see that? Or have I for so long hammered out this flat image of morose despair, of wordy grabs in the dark for company, for solace, that you cannot imagine it? When you see me thus, do you see it only as a lame projection, an illusion that will last until I step from the cab and swing like a gallows through my door?

I hope you don't. I hope that is not what I have given you.

"How do I get back to where I want? You were smiling." - Dead Poetic

Smile again, eh?