Put my faith back together. Put my trust back together--then sail me my down that fucking river of Lethe and watch me dissapear. Forget about me. I'm sure it won't be hard. I'm sure you'll remember how. Pardon me if I sound bitter but it's hard to smile with this knife stuck in my back.

His gun goes off in the dark.

I've got a bomb in my head.

Destroyed his God, but he came prepared. All the world's poetry got sick and died inside of him. He stands on street corners coughing up alliteration and metaphors while fiction throws change at him on the way to work.