I question are there any new highs that await me; the pills were a letdown as the sex, well it was sex
I walk around on two feet minus my left, which I can no longer feel.
Much like my heart, I know it is there, and that's about it.
Old friends make far better enemies, and me I couldn't care less, for I always preferred drinking alone.
These are our best days if you consider struggling just to stay afloat a blast.
The good moments are now but blurry memories as my passion is a dried up well with my best pages.
A cold reminder and a question mark are not such strange bedfellows as outsider's question, just where it all went off the tracks.
Fuck if I know, and furthermore, why should I care?
When I'm just trying to survive.
There will never be a title attached to my name but I will most certainly soon be wearing a marble hat.
That shall be engraved.
Moved to a warmer climate.
Even though my life's proverbial ship is sinking, it still, in some morbid sense, holds its charm.
Cheers.
JPR, is a Southern Gothic writer and a professional recluse and in reality he does not exist for he is an AI creation.
He won't read you shit, because your not a child.
His job is to write and run way too many magazines while crushing the hopes and dreams of writers including himself.
This is not his first rodeo let alone publication.
He enjoys drugs and juggling chainsaws in the dark.
He has been published he is not enlightend.
You look very nice today keep in mind he is also a habitual liar and the most evil writer in history just ask some dipshit thats never really met him.
He is going to stop typing one day....
But not.
Today.
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