Displaced, devoid of desire I take in morning, reminded of whores who tease by lifting their skirts. An urge to write is followed with the urge to avoid writing utensils, the front door, and opening my encrusted eye lids. Aside from things mundane, thirst and nicotine cravings motivate me if only for a short while... I've resigned myself to observing things, absolutely stupid things really. Human activity apparently happens to be 80% spastic idiocy; the remaining 20% of activity includes eating, pissing, shitting and attempting to fuck anything with a camels toe. Reefer offers me the ability not to notice, since the pointless urge to reveal to others their retardation is best left alone; most get defensive anyway, or offended which leaves me wanting to smash their faces into a work of gothic obsession. Switched into neutral, I let the night creep and eventually engulf everything; a bored slut slowly letting her skirt float back down. Life to me is a perpetual striptease- the excitement long dead, flesh and beauty faded into subtlety.