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well, it's true. i don't like to be hated, and i'll tell you one thing more: i'm catching skin under these nails, and i'm well acquainted with the floor. it's high time for a slow ambition. i'm sick of making all these stupid changes to a part that i play well. it is my wall to raise.

what if i'm the best i'll ever be? what if i'm an asshole forever? i know it's not a feather in my cap, but that's one less thing that i've got to carry. my sleeves are soaked and stained from that fat red valve that i left pinned too long, and now i've locked it away.

yeah, it's true. yes, i need to be needed, but doesn't everybody now? some say it's a rubber crutch, but i still say it's better than nothing at all. this life's been one for the wall—the visuals, the visuals. i've rearranged my room for the thirteenth time, but there's too much shit to fit in here. it's kind of like my head, but then it's really just my room. i just can't seem to clear a space in which to stretch out all my words.

why? why? what if I died today? i'm coming short on long explanations (for myself).

i laid my cards on the table. my thoughts are twice my size. i've been unable to find a resting place.

– lazycain, "north atlantic"