We talk about sex and death and what it means to be inhuman humans. We discuss the flavour and never the facts, and with every drink that gets downed our hearts pump perversely so perverse in fact it does us more harm than good. Do we want to be in love with what can never love us in return? Do we accept the struggle knowing full well there may never be a reward? Yeah, I guess we do, and as the cigarettes burn and the bags beneath our eyes grow heavy we couldn’t care less because to suffer is to be righteous and it makes us feel in ways we never thought possible. Is it the love of a woman? Is it the love of a man? Is it that this life doesn’t match the visions you carry in your head? Sometimes, what we can see and touch is just so lacking, and despite the promise of so much more, we know this place is, well, false. In our heads we are limitless, and yet with our hands there are only limits. In our dreams we float through the sky like Peter Pan, and yet day by day we keep getting older and older and nothing seems to stem the flood of years that keep on getting behind us. Can a kiss heal a broken head? Can the gaze of someone who sees the same things bring you back from damnation? I’m not sure, but to feel something, to feel anything, is better than simply drifting through life pretending to be normal. Yeah, y’know those fuckers- those dreadful empties that think life is about gaining the approval of others. What a bunch of pussies. What a smeared collection of turds dressed up in piss-stained ribbons. They may look pretty, but on the inside, they’ve been rotting since they closed the door on their childhood. Good thing we never grew up. Good thing we laugh so stupidly at all we’ve lost and at all that we’ll never get to glimpse.