(no subject)
At a certain point, you don't care about the rent, the labels the industry scouts, the endless groupies parading in and out of your life like macy's day floats, You don't even notice the oceans of alcohol, the towering slopes of cocaine, the bent syringes and the washed out cotton shooting girlfriends. You just want to do anything to keep this circle rotating. You have a grip on life that is invisible and everywhere, in some empty club, you will glow electric white, chrome coupled with opiates and midi sequences, for a few hours, just enough to push the day away. - W.T