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Rating: Standing up as a defender of outsiders is equivalent to standing up as a defender of union struggles, especially when these fail in addressing the interests of the proletariat.
As I age, I find myself stripped of my Id and come to a substantial analytical revelation of the Superego. My senses are sensitive to every mutation, and I formulate theories in the micro-time and micro-space granted to me; I am distracted yet so present. The disintegration of my parts begins, and only a notable mental strength keeps the perception of my reality united.
Don't worry, I'm not going insane. This all stems from stumbling upon this peripheral and dead-end garbage of all music.
box cutter.
To step away is permissible, to hesitate is diabolical, to remain is illogical, and in the illogicalness of our universe, I was losing the compass of my progress, of my existence, always micro in the vastness of the damn thing that you don't care about this overly pre-digested mush.
box cutter, as I was saying, a nostalgia for times gone by, of the usual decade lived but poorly perceived. Low fidelity emo, total awkwardness that vibrates the flesh, that vibrates the nerves; the problem is I have nostalgia for 10 years ago, this stuff would have been released on exploding in sounds if oblivion hadn't swallowed all of it.
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