You want rants.

We’re all so in love with our own vision that there is nothing left.
You pretentious fucks, your wordy bullshit means nothing. Art is just a cocoon for bullshit. Sometimes ya get lucky, and you can fool em. But it amounts to nothing in the end. There is no such thing as a beautiful mind.
We’re dirty, and we’re tired, and we’re not what we hoped we would be, but its nothing new. It’s an old story.

I read an epitaph once, it said:

“Deaths True Name is Onward.”

And the truth is, you know nothing. And neither do they.

I found this gutter punk once, he spun stories. He didn’t lie, he spun stories.
And we were traveling with this guy who called himself Sean, and he had this charming little brogue, and I asked him where exactly he was from, and he said,

“New Jersey”

This is why it’s worth it. There are no truths. You can string all your words together, make them yours. It’s an old story. There is peace in foreign countries, in foreign cities, and especially in foreign skin. And foreign truths. There is peace in home. And there is truth in lies.

This isn’t meant for you, this isn’t meant to mean anything.