Was supposed to write something that would make you want me. Something that upon reading would force you onto your back with your fingers in at the knuckle searching for clues to our origins while attempting to call out my name. I got sidetracked by Minecraft, though. I’ve built this town by the coast, you see, but the animals keep jumping into the rivers I’ve built, so I spent the entire evening putting up fences to stop them messing with my shit. Not very impressive, is it? And it didn’t even fucking work. So I failed on both counts. The animals just jumped over the fences, and the whole place has lost its sense of charm. It appears unkempt and without morals. It’s just disastrous. Oh well, failure is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, failure is vital. It’s much more important than success. Still, I had high hopes that you’d be reading these words high on my intent. That you’d fall asleep with the energy of my writing still lingering in your wrist, but those chickens and pigs messed everything up. It’s about as uncool as you can get, but as Cobain once sang, I’d rather be dead than cool, and so it remains. I make no excuses. I give no alternatives. There is only what we feel inside, and there is only the truth of which we speak. Everything else is superfluous. Doesn’t have to be poetic. Doesn’t have to be grand. Just as long as it’s real, and the mess of what I am is as real as you can get. Still, to vent my frustration, I equipped myself with a diamond sword and slaughtered all the animals. One by one I picked them off, and when it was over, I felt my actions were justified, but as soon as I turned my back, they all reappeared. They were splashing about in the water again, their blocky heads silently mocking me for being such a loser.