There is a wretchedness when the ideas and concepts of my pieces are the only thoughts past ugliness and withdrawals.

Numbers are irrelevant and bang clash with actuality and real and opportunities to cry hard enough to break the damned damn and all of the fucked uppedness.
There is some of it in all of it and there are whores sleeping with whores and blowers sleeping with the gentlemen and in between there are the circus freaks and those of us who smile at the children.

And the children paint the pictures of the happy times.