...
From a long and miserable nightmare full of people I'd once loved and trusted trying hard to kill me... to protect a worthless pretty boy bastard who'd stolen my credit card, charged up three million dollars on it. The damn thing dragged on interminably, and all of it packed with bone-crumbling depictions of the extremities of already way too well-worn disillusionment.
It was all taking place in Berkeley/Emeryville, which is almost always bad dream symbolism for me, and I had to leave or die.
No one trying to help me turned out more interested in my immediate peril than their petty concerns or pontificating about minutia, not even the police when sent after one of the major culprits. They took a look at him and realized it was time for their lunchbreak.
Every hint of safety or uplift dashed against rocks like Christopher Columbus swinging babies by the heels against them to ruin their parents.
I don't think I can put into words the exquisite dimensions of stupidity and futility and parsecs of the unbroken vacancy of brutality too recondite for metropolitan delusions that kept flashing through that dreamscape of never whole buildings and flooded driveways and people to whom meaning is but cues to run scripts so shallow their heights only rarely even reach 2D.
So I'm dressed in black and gunmetal grey, and I have this up LOUD for digging up some primal chi to get over all the anger and fear and distress and helplessness of that motherfucking looooong tribulation. War music.
pipe up any time....
