My therapy session was rudely turned into a cruel attack today, where I was told I have quite severe social anxiety and I need to be a little bit methed up to get by. I refused the state drugs and settled for being sent to have my brain liquified so the void left behind can be filled with fungal growth and used pentium processors to turn me into a machine that the system could finally love.

MY CURE IS NOT A CURE. I just need thick wads of cash.

Nearly all my problems could be solved by the sweet cherry-glazed comfort of boxes of money, go-bags stuffed with notes and coins and hard-tack rations for a month. I feel trapped in a system of oppression and need the notion of freedom, even if it remains unused.

The new voices within dislike that I'm making my own thoughts now and not repeating their ideas, too bad I say. I'm a new man now and I sew my own clothes. I'll follow where my own untained thoughts take me, and they say underground.

The deep and dark and wet depths are where I may belong, which suits me nicely, as I always fancied myself as being a decent cheese maker if I put my mind to it. The bats could be speaking to me but, until now, I never stopped to listen long enough. Their language registers in a range I can hear but that doesn't make my understanding any better. I think they tell me that they like to live deep, they'd love for me to live deep, and they love to live. I'm going to join them soon.