Open The Hood Of A Car And

If You Start Looking At Movies On A Moral Level - "i Don't Like That, That Hurts, That's Mean, That's Bad" - Then I Don't Even Want To Talk To You. Or Like, Someone That Says "i Don't Like Science-fiction Movies," Or "i Don't Want To Sit Through A Western," Or "i Don't Like Violence In Movies," Then I Completely Tune Out.

I Have All The Characteristics Of A Human Being: Blood, Flesh, Skin, Hair; But Not A Single, Clear, Identifiable Emotion, Except For Greed And Disgust. Something Horrible Is Happening Inside Of Me And I Don't Know Why. My Nightly Bloodlust Has Overflown Into My Days. I Feel Lethal, On The Verge Of Frenzy. I Think My Mask Of Sanity Is About To Slip.

No One Is Drawn To Writing About Being Happy Or Feelings Of Joy.

Life Is Like A Typographical Error: We're Constantly Writing And Rewriting Things Over Each Other.

But... What About Us? What About The Past?" She Asks Blankly. "the Past Isn't Real. It's Just A Dream," I Say. "don't Mention The Past.