the EIGHTH of SEPTEMBER, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY.

existence is futile. why do you care?
why don't i care?
the bright violence of red has decayed into the dullness of grey,
and i just want to fucking dig in and find that violence within you;
affirm my suspicions that i'm the only one built this way, no, destroyed this way.
replace your guts with my own. make you feel the emptiness i feel.
it's not fun is it? or maybe it is. deceit can be entertaining, i guess.
fake fake fake. i'm so fucking fake.

take me back!