so, here i figure out that my heart in cold little chunks, partially placed in tucked-away places of the earth, somehow manages to function and glow. there's folk on the riverbed, not very far, coasting downstream. some know where the pieces are and some know how they fit together
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crazy cops, korean war generals, phonebooks. the only three things that have consumed my memory for the day. there, i suppose that's the gist of it
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in times like these, i would usually become super irrational and blow things out of proportion. right now, i want to blow things up. i'm fucking sick of being dicked around with everything. i really don't want to get into it. i just want to find money... get extremely fucked up... and kill people
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as much as i can't hate this city, it feels like such a fucking drag. my anchor's caught on the rocks along the crappy, cruddy seabed and frankly i'm growing impatient.
fuck.
i'm doing the best that i can to make things better... and still i feel it's not good enough [i.e. shooting for the stars and crash landing on the moon].