Like a raw nerve ending. Like everything condensed into a single sensation, taste and touch and smell and sight all working alongside this music. It expands within your chest, a balloon sending you adrift towards the ceiling because the mattress no longer has to support your human body. That leaded, dreary thing stuffed too full of bone and marrow and spit and guts and sperm. It all seems ludicrous, everything up until this point. The incessant drinking, the numbing of yourself in some sort of misguided attempt to combat reality. Reality has no teeth though. Reality is bright and light. We are the ones clouding the sky with our own vicious capitalistic hunger. There is an insatiable pit in our stomachs and so we work for what we don't want and cringe when we get it, disgusted by our own lust for silly things, our superficial zeal. We drink to numb. We drink to feel tingles in our ghost hands that are no longer nimble enough to craft change...

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