I wont explain to teach or justify why it is what it is. I tell it like it is, bout how it was. Why do we live, why do we suffer. When I got sobah I was told that pain was mando and suffering was optional. I was like fuck that; I choose both. I did and I do. Glutton for punishment I stick to my guns, shoot myself in the foot then I fucking reload, regroup, write, rewrite and recover. Any sane man wouldn't reload and wan't more, nor would they openly share shame, regret, remorse and failures with such open transparency. My words are the bullets and reloading is my survival. Such is the surgical resection of the soul, both necessary to build up thick skin made entirely of scar tissue. To claw from the abyssal swill is to live. To bathe in personal scat dehydrated of life; relegated to drinking Gods piss for fear of Satans sweat. I need to suffer as Christ on his chosen cross. My internal crown of thorns so invisible to others feels his nail pierce publicly, secretly dreaming his blood will drop from my tear to my tounge. Its not all black and white because it is all black and white; there is fucking gray. Gray is that ninth cloud, that personal cloud always over Eeyore and gray is the absence of matter in between. This void is our time between attemps, failures and potential survival redigested. This is not a revival since without the muted gray and darkest blacks; there is no white, whites to brighten up the nightmares of colourful past. Joe Strummer knew "The future is unwritten" and Don Mclean knew of the coming day when music died. Without dancing in the present we cannot write about the past; with no past there is no color. Colour is the offshoot of all external catalysts reduced to black, white and gray. I dream in colour because I live in grey; and it all gets written in black and white. Complicated simplicity, alive and grey with poetic toxicity.