A little thing I wrote while under the influence of..... legal things
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Well, fiends... it's happening again. The clocks are all lying to me. I know for sure what time it is... internally. The clocks are lying, and someone is outside my home. Sure as hell didn't see them... still don't, as a matter of fact. Jesus Christ, I hope the locks hold, and the clocks... well.... I'll straighten them out. That's the error of the american dream. ALL the clocks are wrong, and it's impossible to live any sort of dream when you're wide awake, and jabbering like a frantic maniac. Buzzing like a hornet, that's how the head rush is... and those stimulants WILL find you, when you least expect it. They'll sneak up on you like the twisted fiends that they are. I remember that night... but not really. Zeta-Acosta may have been assassinated, and that's probably true. I remember typing like a deranged psychopath, rambling on about an emerald chasm, surrounded by electric blue spider webs. And they exist... I wasn't lying about a goddam thing. It's all a matter of how you translate my words, and eventually they make sense. These walls... they'll smile at you, but they have an aura of ill-intent about them. Can't really ignore them, they don't go away. Yet you can't pay attention to them, that's what they want. Sleep peacefully, my friends, secure and safe in the knowledge that you're walls aren't like mine. The walls around me are twisted, shit-faced, and frantic. And so am I. Sometimes... you have to negotiate with the walls before you can turn your back on them......
