Concrete England. Countrysides and inner turmoil while fading in comparison to the Americans. Our killers pale; our sex so timid and sickly like sour milk. Short skirts and lipstick; kids in prams and needles flushed down toilets. The darkness within compared to smiles of sunshine and orange juice. Biscuit tins containing old bank notes mixed with long forgotten photographs of now dead lovers. Hammers and ice picks. Cigarettes and black stockings as we take baths in the early hours of a Sunday morning. Lucifer as we touch; as the love in our veins turns to dust. Laughing girls who bury themselves in books, in relationships not born from magic, but the need not to be single. How so many fear the lonely hours, yet it’s in the lonely hours when great minds are forged. If you can survive inner destruction, then you can survive whatever else comes your way. The hand of time upon your shoulder. The shadow of death in the bags beneath your eyes. Don’t complain that it’s all too much, and don’t complain that this life is worthless. Too many have had their chances snuffed out, and even more were never given a fair shot in the first place. Stop the self-disgust, and start believing. Quit the mundane need for justification, and speak what needs to be said. Red balloons for the faithful departed. You’re not paid to think, you’re paid to repeat and be proud of it. That’s what the machine wants, and that’s what the machine gets. Fathom minds such as mine and be a force to be reckoned with. So many fucked up hearts that wish for freedom outside of dreary supply and demand. Be vigilant. Be a vigilante. Disappear; become a ghost and break these dismal machines once and for all. Avoid traces of pacification, and taste the mouth of God at 4 am in the morning. Find religion in her breasts. Find it down all those lonely roads you’ve ever walked. Ignore no more the aching loss of self that mocks you each and every day. It’s time for a changing of ways in an age of endless, muddy seas.