Dear God,
The patient's best intentions have sadly faltered.
Despite his newly installed, varnished brain, and being force-fed gallons of viscous demented liquor, he is determined to obtain the new drone spiders' trophy.
He dreams of becoming the scorpion who never sweats.
Quite frankly i'm sickened to have this individual infiltrate my headspace.
He talks of lascivious laughs haunting his every second as the clock spits, clicks, and time speeds by in the form of a neon snake.
Massive delusions?
Very probably.
I fear for my safety.
He is as weak as his fellow man.
I am now surrounded by hypocrites, liars, drunks, clowns, fools, sycophants and the desperate.
I insist we barter with the moon to sell the patients cohesive lyrical maps in exchange for a vision of the future.
Stricken with grief, I have no choice but to turn to lethal toxins.
Hardcore Punk Paste.
Allstars takin' over...