The test of life is everyday. I test this feature of context and of my words and writings... Work, work, work...

the calm of fuckery...

drunk off of pressure and stress until the calm of fuckery sweats through an emotional pituitary...

i'm growing fatigued with this road and the buzz of nervous anxiety constantly pressing the flesh, this flesh of the World of mine- this brown organ, porous and vascular,

i love thee... protect me from the outside, it's chill and chaos. my mom and dad wove this skin of reality of the World and mine- this crowned lord, for us, for ever more...

"Can you shove a button, just one?"

What's really going on? There are so many arguments, so many answer-less questions and problems without solutions. These are also the fundamental results of a mystery that is integral to the fabric of culture, reality, life and living and Los Angeles and her cult... We are the chaos that must wind some dynamic menagerie from the richness inherent in our hearts.

We riot when we celebrate life, death and victory in World Championships... oh yeah, the occasional injustice. Because of this, suckers watch their asses, pigs watch their ass, but the Cult must also cover six of the clock while shoving the button in Los Angeles.