separated by walls both physical and metaphorical, or whatever fucking english class term you would use to describe them. solitude is a cold, dead hand, grabbing at me from beyond the grave. i'll be there soon enough if this keeps up, just give it a fucking rest you son of a bitch. i don't need you rushing me. i don't need to believe everything that i hear. i don't need to believe anything. take me by surprise, keep things interesting. this is what is. inconclusive evidence and rough edges. you have the power, so use it. don't even think fucking twice about it. don't even think. just do. you don't have to think. you just have to do. exist. or don't. exist. i want to live in the forest, off the forest, because of the forest. i'm sick and tired of this fucking city and the glamorous fucking imbeciles that inhabit it. i'm losing my mind. or receding extremely deep into a state of total loss of thought control. but i can play the guitar like a motherfuckin riot. i can do anything i want to do. but i don't want to.