Sorry, but you have killed me. i can't love anymore, because you've created a wasteland.

A wasteland of expectations. No-one but you and the four of you can win. I don't like the word, win. I like the words, Let go.

It created a long white line of nothing.

I don't want that feeling, it's so quick to show itself, it told me. Every dead amen told me how to feel that deadly moment, and I knew it, completely, for a small amount of minutes. But, to feel a better completeness, I had to run from death. I didn't need to know, but i suddenly did. I became a part of all those people chiming, and beating together the drums, beating beating me, into a paranoid state, in a place called Paranoia. Which was so easy to leave. Leaving is wise. I don't need the gang. bad team. I want to feel lighter like small lives are lighter. Not calls for mass hate, suicide wise meat.

I couldn't believe in them, at all. They brought heights of emptiness to my emotions, building lands of giant grey robots, banging plastic tubes against metal bins, until a morose migraine spilled into my rubber brain. I've been shot in the head, I will get off the bed and sleep on the floor, covered in my coat. I've been shot in the head, shot in the head. Heal me, heal me.