Spirituality is a sham. I'm writing out of emotion that is uncalled for. I should practice being stoic. I should practice being a machine. These excercises will bring me no closer to God than will the pen and paper. Accept the loss, bite down on the pain. I am alone in my head; there is no one real there--only the nightmares that I create.

In a basement I create violence. I do it by using a machine; it is depersonalized violence. I create it hoping that it will become the ultimate violence so that I can mass market it to warring nations. I will package the violence in jars with warning labels: "WARNING: MAY CAUSE BELLIGERENCE".

These are not narratives, they are stories from a river that runs through my head. The river is a constant. For the most part the river and I are in agreement, but sometimes I wish I could turn it off and not think at all.

There are phantoms in my mind. There is violence. There is love. There is anger. There is resentment. There is lust. There is no harmony, there is only cacaphony. There is only a symphony of noise, randomly actualizing itself. It is all beyond my control.

Her wet, slippery, mind spit him back out as quickly as he came in. This rejection created disorder. With disorder came malfunction and so now he cannot function because he cannot forget the dejection. He is a broken metaphor.