Note to self and Internet.

Give up. Keep going. Chase 'em down, let them run. Watch them fall or help them up. Been an eighties kid since vicious Sid, but I can't seem to grasp the only thing that makes me happy.

Reservoir dogs, for real. And I wouldn't care about pinching your violin and giving it a strum. How you like me now? Ignored, gnawed at once too many times.
Yet, hands and knees, I beg forgiveness?
Is this it?
Should I just fuck it all up and explain myself, whilst sober, all the while knowing it's one ear one cup and out the other.
You don't know either, and that's what's up.



My past lives a blur?
Chairman applauds and concurs?
I need an anchor for my rowboat.

Goodnight Perth.