To much walking shoes warn thin. To much trippen and my souls worn thin.
This place is a prison these people aren’t your friends. Inhaling thrills theirs 20 dollar bills and the tumblers are drained and then flooded again and again.
I sat watching a flower as it was withering i was embarrassed by its honesty
There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable… I simply am not there.