Normally I am an amicable man but when I write I flip into an animal not fit for hospitable land. This is mentally, not physically demanding. Sometimes it's hard to understand what's happening, impossible to grasp an understanding, when you are at the mercy of hundred mantras all vrying, jockeying for position, trying to grab your attention at once. Like when I look at the clock and it's onze:onze. I feel like a big baby stomping around in a romper suit. That's one way to break out of a despondent mood. By picking up the pen and sticking it to their rear ends! There's no reason to fear them. I'm the teacher here, friend! No one can get near, so you better hear me, as my bad thoughts, I clear these out. Flee or be clowned. As I set free my hounds in the guise of a thousand dummy rounds. Not playing games like pontoon or rummy. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. Not even for money. I just do this for fun, and I'm gonna leave 'em a ton, before my boxcar is coming. But it's not long before the start of the summit. And I wanna be part of it, at the very heart instead of marginalised from it. I'm starting to like the idea of starting a life, new, instead of harshly surviving. What do they call it? Land of the living? Or a La La Land with the gibbons? Getting through the fall's not a given. Not all has been written. In the stars. Except another outbreak of sars. But how fake, when now cases are part of how we take numbers? Is it any wonder that they're jumping into hundreds? Dark forces have spun webs, and some dumb flies can't see the thunder yet. Better just to get drunk and write off the rest of this summer. Coz the Mothership is going down, under... shit, you're gonna drown. As a God decides to flood another town before the militarised junta. This is how, the Deagel stats predict the drastic count of people dropping in such whoppingly high mumbers. Fire + Water = Most of us put into the fryer, in the face of a fake messiah. Hope you have acquired your lake attire? You're awake but is it too late to escape from the fire? You need a cape that can fly you out of the flames, like a phoenix transpiring, from unstable roots, breaking free of the gable roof, and getting higher in the sky. The storm is a sign, a warning, that I, am transforming. And there's nothing that I, can do, but take the Dance Macabre, my place in France is karma. Yet that place is calmer, slavery in collar, awaiting, educating me, it swallows. I just follow my path, already set, in stone, with each one that I am stepping on. Resetting, then await my pledge, le piège du travail, till the day I die. No other way of life, but reformation, away from this deformed nation. A slave to a deeper core, a penal course, but peaceful positive reinforcement and order. You need nothing more than this new norm to conform to. A new dorm, away from the influence of porn. And away from influenza, the moment you enter, to serve your sentence at this centre. A sacred surrender, placed in the trenches, until the end of time. Learn to live like a blank slate, an empty mind. Set for the new revolution, with pleasure infused, a fresher, in a seduced state, caged, confined in a divine bliss. Being deprived redefines what freedom is. But when it's deepened, catered to, we can reach a place that we cannot even reason with.