i think i will shoot the radio. it will be my first protest for the criminalization of regurgitating material. i used to wonder what anyone could write songs about other than GOD. i have found it to be all – to be love and pain or some vague separation of the two. this is called generalization. it is the over-extension of basic principles and it is a defense mechanism. it bores me regardless of its utility.

while she was crying onstage, i was looking out the window over the mediocre city, wishing that i was not being subject to another manifesto to stop buying things i did not already buy. the arguments rarely apply, and less and less.

she, the one without, said my future was iridescent, and i could have vomited because she didn’t know and i couldn’t tell her. perhaps the half-digested would adequately represent the system where i was only a strange mockery.

i held myself as a silent parade of rage because i was afraid of inviting a fight. i am a pacifist but i would kill the radio. i will kill the next person who lectures me on love and does not say anything new – so i will kill the next person who lectures me on love.

just because they can synthesize glucose or consume capitalistically or lecture vociferously, i do not believe in them. i feel closer to GOD than i do to the person beside me, but i do not feel close to GOD. i am alienated praying and looking out the window and preparing to shoot the radio. she says i can’t talk like that in this place, where there are wires and ears and devices of the deceased. they are looking to incriminate me, she says, and they will detain me in isolation.

the phrase “bloody war” comes across the radio and it is too redundant for my taste. i say i am bloody even when i am not bleeding. she says they can hear you. the government is in my car, listening as i lecture the radio. i say they know what i tell you when i am so nauseous i can not stand. they know the plans and have not tried to stop them.

she is quiet and then says i love you. i am lambasted with repulsion because it will be the wrong answer regardless of whether i do or not. perhaps i approached from the wrong diagonal.

i say after they let me rot in isolation, i will just be bones and they will be able to artistically render a version of me that looks either more like them or less like them, depending on the inclination of the times.

i am driving down the road at three hundred kilometers an hour and pretending i am not pissed. i stop and go inside and there is a woman behind the desk. she offers me a compliment. i smile and say thank you and leave and shoot the radio. the wires rest in havoc, pulled from the dash, and i contemplate an attempt to contact whatever home is. i think about culture and how i do not have one and if home were to exist, would i belong there, either, after being here in isolation for so long.