2002-01-22 - 9:58 PM

Maybe my head is a recycling plant, full of dry, dirty cans to be crushed into dry metal nothing, hot greasy machinery operating too loud for simple things to get by. The image of a butterfly landing on a landmine for no reason at all. Simple, beautiful things have no time to rest, because my mind is littered with unwelcome noise. There is a tribe in my head, a colony, a city, a megalopolis of NOISE THAT WILL NOT STOP, NOT EVEN FOR A GOD-DAMNED MINUTE.