He grew tired of trying to be led by the dull and unimaginative.
Bullied by boorish clowns.
Irony is history.
The game is ludicrous.
Ask any day jobber or your local street hustler.
There's still sex but it is not dangerous in a good way.
His hometown became a foreign country and he does not speak the language.
He was never a flag waver.
He cut himself a slice of the surreal landscape blooming everywhere.
He sat in the barren fields and drank in thoughts from iconoclastic minds.
It was an engaging waste of time.
It's all bought out.
The money changers have decimated possibilities.
They are mean and sad and will do anything to silence their enemies.
The population, numb as always, frowned upon his peculiar excesses.
I cannot afford anarchy.
I cannot abide reality.
Let's get a good buzz going and rock out like they did during the 60's and 70's.
You know me.
I'm down for anything.
Just a big softie at heart.
Still punk as fuck.
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