Sweet Nectar of Nonsense
It must be a tragic state of affairs when duck and cover begins to seem like a viable option. Afterbirth? Forget the afterbirth. I shiver at what hideous a whore it must have taken to birth such an unholy monstrosity. I'd happily beat a river dance into the placental rot if it meant being spared the view of New World Jenova. I heard a dirge once or was it a requiem; ah what the hell's the difference anyway? The thing is...it never stopped playing. It's etched itself on the inside of my skull, yeah like a 45, complete with nostalgic popping sounds and all. How about that! Here it is. Here I am. For time memoriam...well now, let's not be ridiculous. Until obsolescence anyway, then just chuck me on that heap with the rest of the techno-rubble. It's beautiful music though so be sure to document it elsewhere when my wires are frayed. It's odd...but powerful. With it I've yin-yanged epic highs and abysmal lows and it all amounts to one darkly glowing megalopolis. What wonderment emanates from this palatial slum! Is that repulsion I feel? Or is it seduction? Damn, what does that make me? Some sort of deviant I'm sure. I can't make peace with it. I can't decide if it's anger or apathy. Maybe it's angathy or hey even apater! Now that, that's just stupid.