ill communication

Transformed by love, Chaney, in the Ace of Hearts

I'm That Kid In The Corner
All Fucked Up And I Wanna So I'm Gonna
Take A Piece Of The Pie, Why Not, I'm Not Quitting
Think I'm Gonna Change Up My Style Just To Fit In
I Keep My Underwear Up With A Piece Of Elastic
I Use A Bullshit Mic That's Made Out Of Plastic
To Send My Rhymes Out To All Nations
Like Ma Bell, I've Got The Ill Communications

Sure Shot, The Beastie Boys

My eyes have just opened upon a Saturday morning that saw The Ace of Hearts the night before. No new calls, I was hoping that something came through unnoticed in the middle of the night.

I can't seem to get along with anyone lately. I have regressed three months in 36 hours. My mind fluttering through emotions so fast that my body can't keep up. My face, my eyes, my voice, my hands, transmitting neuroses, and bitterness that I am unaware of because the mind moved on, long ago. The people I care for most, they are the ones that must deal with this mixed bag of misfiring synapses, but they seem tired of it, and I don't blame them. I just want to grab onto something, and hang on tight, stop this circus swirl of hot and cold, but everything has blended itself into a smooth indeterminable wall of colour. Something that looks like a road, seen through a small hole in the floor of a car moving a hundred miles an hour. If I tried to touch something now it would only rip flesh, and grind bone, back, all the way to my wrists, and then I wouldn't be able to hold anyone, or anything, ever again.