Pencil in the spaces where you dissapeared. Pray that you have not vanished.

Morphine. I need morphine to endure this reality.

Ether. I need ether to dissolve into liquid.

I cannot reenact the part where the structure crumbled. To reenact such a thing would require years of training as an unoriginal actor.

I will drain my body at the station.

He is an equation. He cannot feel. He is mathematically immune. There is no formula for emotion. He will be emotionless because it is safe. He will not die for you. He is not a martyr. He is an automated money dispenser, feeding the superstructure so that he does not have an identity. To have an identity would be far too painful because then he would realize what is happening. He would understand that he is a slave. He would understand that his life is not really his. He already gave up anything that gives him pleasure so that he can become more fully automated. Soon he will walk like a machine. More like the superstructure's idea of a machine that they have instilled in him through their clever use of media, but ideally their idea is the one he wants. He will not be aware of anything. He will act accordingly. He will abide and then he will vomit all of his originality into a tin barrel. Tin is more economic. He would not want to be a burden or bring attention to himself by using a barrel made of gold or some other precious metal.

The pain, the power, and the greed have all left him.

Don't float away.

He turned around and found that she was gone.

Meaning only comes when he drowns. Can you rip the consciousness out of me?

Let the rain drown you. Let the pain consume you.

I cannot go on dying. Numb the pain with morphine. Self diagnose. Help yourself if you can. Deny the facts. Survive.

Take away my humanity—replace it with a dollar. We are living genocide. Everyday that you show up to work you are bringing the dream one step closer to fruition; we all are.

Let the pain drown you. Let the rain consume what is left of you.

Withering in the cold, unfeeling world.

Give up. Don't resist. Resisting will only upset you. Continue being dead and die dreaming about what you could have been.

He bled until the oceans turned red.

I cannot foresee the turbulence with precision; I only know that it is there.

I feel left out.

Marxist alienation.

The machine is crippling me. The silence is driving me insane. The white noise isn't helping me either.

I owe you a life.

Bleed this pain. Breathe this anger and then jump into the lake and remember me.

You can't take away the resentment you gave me. You can't take away the love you crippled. Expect me to be waiting with a steel pipe and maybe a gun.

Pull the trigger if you're smart. Pick me. Pick me and then let me pull the trigger into the hollow chambers of your heart. I'm tired of bringing you back to life. Did I try too hard? Did I hand you that death letter to soon? Pack up and run because they are here. All of them are here and nothing we can do is going to stop them. Self medication will no longer help. You can't ignore us. You grew up with us and you will die with us.

The auditory hallucinations preoccupy me.

Burn the obelisk.

Youth devours youth. The clock ticks and he has not imploded as of yet. The tragedy may lie in the lack of tragedy—in that an event has not yet occurred. He feels the isolation choking him. He feels the Marxist sense of isolation, but Marx cannot help him. The voices in his head cannot help him. He is lost.

Time devours time. No clocks tick in this standstill. No hours meet where these lovers were last seen. The death of romance is near—for romance is an illusion, nothing more.

The last time he shot someone, she was with him. They were happy alibis, but nothing was ever mentioned. It is like the murder never occurred, like the body was never found. Could it still be in that desert? In the heat? Are there vultures? Is that a cliché? If so, what would make it less of a cliché? What could make it the completely original story that would transcend all of the recycled story lines that have been written time and time again? Are we trapped in a circle of narratives? One inside the other only to find that the core has been eaten away by the monotonous process of writing? Of creation?

He came home to a Spaghetti Warehouse font and pulled out his shotgun. All of his childhood fears came back to him. When he was nine his father took him to the Warehouse to eat bad lasagna. He did what he had to do—the only sane thing that he could do—he put the font to rest.