With A Gun Barrel Between Your Teeth,

I'm Living The Life I Love, I Tell Myself, And Loving The Life I Live. I Tell Myself: I Deserved This. This Is Exactly What I Wanted.

You Could Stab A Knife Right Through My Heart And You'd Be Too Late.

This Is How It Is With Insomnia. Everything Is So Far Away, A Copy Of A Copy Of A Copy. The Insomnia Distance Of Everything, You Can't Touch Anything And Nothing Can Touch You.

I'm Not Sure What We're Running From. Nobody. Or The Future. Fate. Growing Up. Getting Old. Picking Up The Pieces. As If Running We Won't Have To Get On With Our Lives.

All Major Publishing Houses Have These Big Fat Biographies Sitting There, Waiting For People To Die. All You Have To Do Is Slap On The End And Put In On The Market. It's That Kind Of Commoditization And Completion Of Your Life Before You Die - And This Kind Of Imposition Of A Public Idea Of Self That Replaces The Actual Living Self - That I Find So Frightening.