Who’s supposed to sort through all this shit? Who could decipher this mental masturbation and put it legibly on paper. It’s all here, vast amounts of unusable knowledge and pornographic images. What’s not lost has been stoned away in the rotting corpse of an ex-convict. Make a head or a tail, shine a light, led me astray or someplace safe from me. You could follow me down. Slow so slow you’ll think were afloat. But of course we’ll love the drowning. They’ll all stand and stare like we are stains on a beautiful thing they were making. When it was they who helped us get this way. How many times have we ignored them? As they fell from grace and we helped and gossiped. What does this all mean? Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares. We could count the crows, But who the fuck dares. Jsm