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Identity crisis

Woke up feeling like I'd been shat out of the ass end of some cosmic elephant, some bastardization of digestion and birth. I'm lonely, but not detached from everyone, more voyeur than voyageur, floating in my tin can a million miles away from everything. Planet earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do, wallaby.

Cantankerous and provocative, I need something new. I'm buried in the funk of ages, bastardized in the prison of my own making. Less a man than an entity, an avatar, it is like I don't exist except as a replica.

Conflagration, reptile, the fire of purification burns in my blood; that which does not kill me makes me stronger or weaker or changes me in some indefinable way, marshmallow on a stick with a crusty exterior all melty inside. What kind of hallucinogen did you give the children that they have visions of sugarplums dancing?

Icehouse, waterhouse, my feet frozen in concrete desperate to run but afraid to move soundlessly silent creep along the baseboards intense intent lost in a big world beyond imagining cat-and-mouse game, but am I the cat or the mouse? And who moved my cheese?

Degrade. Dienfranchise. Suckle at the corporate teat, pimped to the unappreciative until the spoiled milk froths in my veins and leaves me a bloated starving husk.

It is important to heal, but one must first close the wounds.

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