A mixture of bad luck and stupidity left me in a paranoid panic on the bathroom floor. The newspapers told all these black and white, eventually fading to yellow stories of AIDS, kidnap and rape, and i looked and smelt no different from these paper people. I had a nose like them and two eyes like them, i have a smile like them and made mistakes like them. I felt 2D and flimsy like them, and i was sure that just like the many, if i set fire to myself, i would burn.

Im a pig, im ugly and alone now, i lie all the time And its starting to get wild ill never be anything, i've never been good at anything I would have dirty sex with myself because I know just how easy I am. Even tho i am the one and the best.

I had said to myself whilst dancing on my toes, amid the whispering ears of barley grow "Gabriel child you really should know, that Dog spelt backwards is God". What mirrors see, is what bothers me, the gift to see things differently, one made of muck and poverty, and the other honesty/majesty. It really was enough to puzzel me, that Dog spelt backwards is God. These are selfish times and i think that maybe i have never really cared at all, much, for any of you, despite my moaning and at times apparent shows of affection. Of course i know there are a few among you that i share somthing very real with, very beautiful, at times tragic, but only with that tender ache we discuss and i feel mostly complete in those times.

I barely can write about me words can't say anything when it matters, they are silly, sick sad sounds is all. I will lock myself away in here. It's not that i'm bitter, just up right and rigid, more upset then anything maybe, but without being pathetic. Stuff matters now, and it has to. I miss being the king in my fucking fairy tale.