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If Esteban won't let me invoke thought to change the game, the last dinosaur will lament that it is the dearest of my original sins, a serenade within the fog-enshrouded nightscape of eternity, asphyxiated with nepenthe as I shave my face with scissors in the dark, believing in a happy ending that makes me cry tears of hellish pleasure and heavenly sorrow as my idea of a vacation is wishing upon a star for the nothingness to commit suicide, for I question my messiah as to why I'd rather make love to a cartoon and the odd ones, telephone shopping slipper sleaze, operate at 2 KB/s when I'm not watching as Gataway's gotten me through much, I'm still partially afraid of mosquitos and my hubris still isn't right, knowing there was a hole here in this insanity world, but beautiful vibes and the euphoria of a different reality lead to the millennium hysteria when the sun sleeps and I am of the Half Pain, too tired to brake a promise to midnight's next day that ruining my record of mind evolution will constitute an experiment worth the devil's apparel fit for a porcelain data satellite that monitors the unborn children of the generation Unstability, heaven's torso, hell's mind, and purgatory's TV. edit when life's nothing but a hillbilly rodeo two steps from stimulation and a .59 light-year from what we knew in times of distortion under the moonlight's homage to the darkness in my mind. I am the original.