In my younger days, I would stop at nothing to feed the hunger. I was focused. I was obsessed, And I was always hungry. That desire was my alpha and omega, the totality of my life. It burned with the intensity of acid and the force of bile. Rules were meaningless. People meant even less. My only connection with them was in terms of whether they can help me feed. I was becoming feral. I started talking to myself. Briefly, at first. Short, syncopated, like the words to a magic spell. Eventually, it became more, uh, effusive. It was as if I had tapped into some hidden reservoir, and these dialogues erupted like ulcers onto the lining of my crumbling personality, making me porous, ready for some foreign, diabolical infection.
spiral scratch
crooked down the road .. . { oh susanna }
what do i get .. . { buzzcocks, operator’s manual }
heard’em say .. . { kanye west, late registration }
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