I think your train is leaving..

loud/soft music, the kind stiched and sung and bled from the band Indian Summer, is an allegory representing the human condition and experience. It is the soundtrack to falling in/out of love, the soundtrack to being expelled from your mothers womb by her vaginal thrusts or the incisions made by a glistening scapel executing a shaky c-section, the soundtrack to cross country Greyhounds slowing gradually to a complete halt to let on an Appalachian poet with a tortured conscience and the worlds smallest cock. When I listen to the exaggerated build ups I can't lasso my mind and order it to function like a supposed normal individuals. I can't just hum to delicate background music while I fiddle and fingerfuck around on the Village Voice crossword puzzle. I fall fucking head first into thoughts of Freudian obsession, exisential anxieties, philosophical riddles pertaining to questioning if i'm even hearing music or if i've never been born yet and nobody has and god is testing the brain wirings of his prototypes. I think of turning on a black light in my bedroom, stoned, and seeing cum stains on the wall like stars in the virgo cluster and lint on my insurance paid glasses which could have obstructed me from seeing an ant that could have changed my life for the better. In short..I think too much. Always have. Always will. It will probably be the death of me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YOHPjSUyPw

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2wgnuFkbxI&feature=related