I feel sick to my stomach. Nausea comes in waves. My nerves, will are gone. I can't stand on this shaky ground. Empty words, an opposing stance has offered nothing but migrane, malaise, doubt and hate. Sentenced to this sickness until death. Nothing's left. Gutted. Empty Heart. I'm ducking out, I'm done.
Track Name: Handbanana
Patriarchal dominance, systematic objectification, illusions of ownership, institutional othering, sublimation passiveness. Violation becomes trivial. Maybe when you grow up you'll see no ones laughing, the joke is tired.
Track Name: First as Tragedy, Then as Farce
Panoptic ego looking for flaws, mind and body looking good. An ultimate truth, a moral absolute. Chasing your tail, catching the tip, a hoopsnake rolling through rhetoric. Do you know who you are? The death of the author taken too far. Reading yourself out.