Dreams of Hell and Freedom

Strange dreams, strange dreams of men and of war. Of fright and of adversaries stalking through the night. Strange enemies that bring death and gloom, fires burning a home. In such dreams I dwell, and as I dwell the passage to the portal of Hell pulses and it grows. Sickly green odors sludge from the bowels of Pain, dripping acidic horror to wherever evil resides. I sit and smile as the clock winds down, winds backwards, and eventually breaks down. So too must I wind down and break my back, backwards.

In such lives we live, in such dreams we die. Then we are bon, reborn, dismantled, assembled, and repaired to perfect condition. The condition being, of course, that we don't fuck up. As such, here I am once more: fucked up, drugged up, brought down and feeling down, with my head in the skies and my heart buried for dead. It still pumps power through my veins, and the murderer will hear the sentence; justice will be served as one portion per day. No cholesterol, no artificial sweeteners, colored dyes, or preservatives. No, sir, this is the real god damn thing, here!

Don't talk back, for I am superior, inferior, both, neither, nothing at all, and owing much to quantum consciousness. Dare you heed my stories? Only at the cost of being liberated! Heed my warnings: free your mind.