What do you call someone who thinks this is something real, something palpable, when in fact, it is the residual bullshit of generational sacrifice and self-loathing?

How do you explain it to all those people, who have already figured it all out like no one else could before them?

All these artists and visionaries turning recycled milk cartons for major profit, art is relative murder is relative. Psycho babble bullshit and ipods and film noir and walking with your coffee cup to one renovated factory, where your services are required for serious business inventory, with oversized bag and tight jeans.

It wasn’t the video games that brought us to this place of sacrificial violence in the name of adulthood it was the history channel.

One may not be able to easily justify smashing a mans head in with a blunt object, but one can empathize with the historical need to protect a name, mostly, to protect your name.

Who isn’t guilty of that?

What you do when the time comes is entirely up to you but it may surprise you how you can betray yourself, and suddenly, you’re looking at it from the inside. Inside that place, that is where you’ll find the art, painted over blood and pieces of human memories of some universe no one else will know. With a silent, perfectly respectable audience, solemnly cheering America’s favorite anti-hero.