onemorepanic

Make me into a thousand happy pictures, page by page across your album. This is the person I want to remember.

Kafka said something about a certain type of writer, this certain type of writer who dreams of his own death, his own funeral, and how everyone'd react.

I guess we'd call that foresight.
I've dreamt upon it daily.

These days I'm looking for something...
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On a May march home in the gentle breeze of this salt stained town, I'm measuring my worth in Twisted Metal Black scores, audioscrobbler stats, and girl's phone numbers transcribed on random lottery tickets.

I don't know their names. I might not ever call them. It's just something to justify worth against. It's something useless to show off to my friends. Something I will never...
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Fill this fucking box with text.
Begin with madness end with madness.
Sometimes the Game Boy Advance on the train backfires. In it's usual use, it makes with the time travel, distances to school and work seem like the passing of a cigarette but on this occassion a few boys with their elder guardian attacked the being, being I and layed down the infinite pop...
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bits of memory pulled from dreams and read off like an asshole:

we're chillin' at work, and this guy comes in and starts eggin' us on.
callin' us losers so i jump real high and hit the guy in his neck and then he starts to kick my ass ninja style, pullin' out chakra and shit.

then there's these two hawt broads in a broken...
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Weekend of Doom.

Missions to far away lands for a bit of that Mindless Self Indulgence rhythm that has all the kids shaking and movin'.
Intoxicated dance moves and random kisses, torn coat and a kick ass fucking show.

MSI FUCKS YOUR EYES IN.

Proceed to the next space.

Triple threat of hotel rooms and some of my favorite freaks with much, too much booze...
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Open this up with whatever resides.
Close this off with lyrics pre-quoted. Then delete them.
Expected is nothing that follows besides that.

Point sight at ideals, past ideals, current ideals.
Anything concerning anything that I could possibly have an opinion on and question it.

I've never been more comfortable with myself, and for some reason it's the scariest thing.

I look back and no longer...
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You can't let them know I talk to you.
You know how it is.
They're starting to treat me like an equal.

Keep your intent to yourself, to let them know would scar your sincerity.
Now you have a child, a floating bubble of an idea, and that means expectations.

For others to have expectations of you makes you a predicament.

One of these days...
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say hello to provmatic.
lil somethin' called a b-day present.
shower him with loving the 3rd.

What is this horrible pulsating stink covered fuck shell that encapsulates me?

You spend too much time in front of the fucking mirror!

I'm really depressed Tom, I want you to feel really depressed too..
"When you do something that can even touch the ideal that you've reserved for me, then you can fucking criticize me, then you can fucking SPEAK to me, until then...
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Let's make this the point where I regain hope.
Let's make this the point where I delude myself.

Make everything grand scheme. Make everything silken tents. Every instance surrounds me just waiting to be yanked off stage.

Fuck what I believe in. Fuck who you are.
I make myself an animal, so I don't recognize who I am when I wake up.

someone fucked up the order.
it was supposed to be work, school, sleep, work, school.
marked across the calendar forever in a spiral.
what do I see in this age old optical illusion?
beside the dirt under my nails, and the empty beer bottles
around me. the quiet hum of computer fans, and the bed behind me, calling out to me, in the early evening....
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