Last night with the fumes and the liquor, I saw the best minds of my generation rise, and fall to the lowest rungs of creative expression, wallowing and screaming at unnamed demons conjured before them, groping in the darkness for their anima or passed out on the bleachers,
Dead to the world.
I felt water grow scarce, my throat get drier, the taste get bitter, in the haze of institutionalised madness we flew over the sound boxes playing indie blues and into a timelessness.
Stuck in a strange wheel of pure, unadulterated aimlessness born from knowing, in that throbbing bubble in a soulless city lies all the hope the world could offer.
Comfort can be addictive. Especially if you switch off your senses, all around you, there is a bold embrace of nothing. It is a state of voluntary exile, where every mind that could have made a difference is injected with hallucinogens and left dreaming of its imaginary realities.
This is the home of the wicked, home of the brave. This is an institution, a grave and a slippery pole where no one can be on top. This is the world if the world could agree to systematic insanity.
To survive here you have to let go of your survival instincts, stare at the crisscross of theatre poles while lying on your back.
This is hotel california, welcome to the home of the gifted. Welcome to the home of the dreamers, the dancers, singers, actors, the hub of talent, the best of the best, the spirit of the city bottled up in a jar and set alight.
Were all going out faster than most, the best aiming at 27, welcome to the cave of a foreign beast, here you can either sleep forever or scream.