Saturday, May 22, 2004

Metallica- Fade to Black

Life it seems, will fade away
Drifting further every day
Getting lost within myself
Nothing matters no one else
I have lost the will to live
Simply nothing more to give
There is nothing more for me
Need the end to set me free

Things are not what they used to be
Missing one inside of me
Deathly lost, this can’t be real
Cannot stand this hell I feel
Emptiness is filling me
To the point of agony
Growing darkness taking dawn
I was me, but now he’s gone

No one but me can save myself, but it’s too late
Now I can’t think, think why I should even try

Yesterday seems as though it never existed
Death greets me warm, now I will just say good-bye

---

Don't worry, Mitch is not saying goodbye. He is still here.
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Friday, May 21, 2004

I wanna look out the window of my color TV.

McDonald's still hasn't called me back. Yay. They're such fags. All of them are fags. I just want a job, that's all I want, so I can say I have a job and I can act like I'm so happy to have a job and so I can get money and so I can just sit there and save it (for I have no use for the materialstic shit people buy. Give me a pen and a piece of paper--give me an open word document and a keyboard--and I am happy as I'll ever be).

Today was all right. I think that about sums it up. It wasn't anything amazing (not that it ever is), it wasn't too bad (not that it really ever is). It was just all right. That's rigt--just "All right."

The high point was making tie dye shirts in Chemistry. I ended up making on the front of mine a big fan with blood all over it, and then below that "Death is release, a bloodsoaked fan. (Thank god for that much to have had.)" When I drizzled the Isopropyl Alcohol on the fan to make it tie dyed in the method we were using, it turned out pretty good. Not to mention the lines from my poem "societyfuckedme" that I put are always close to my heart. Those are just some of my more favorite lines.

On the back, I wrote a timeless poem. It's the first one I ever wrote, I just call it "Underneath." I've memorized the little beauty, and here I will say it below for all you little kids:

"Cloudy water,
Endlessly deep
For someone to keep

Only underneath
That cloudy water
Will you sleep."

It's good, I think. The "cloudy water" is life. It goes on the notion that the only way you'll die nicely is if you give someone else your life and forget about your life. Only underneath your life will you sleep. Only if you cover it up and quite worrying about it.

I also put "Would I were a maggot, sucking most sweet divine," below that as well, on the back of the shirt. I think I've already explained that one before so it's all good.

In other news, Mitch is good. Mitch keeps looking through his jail cell and sees this Mitch here that's typing. He wondered why the hell this Mitch is here and Mitch is in his cell. Someday he'll break free, he thinks. Mitch knows he will sometime.

Haven't been writing too much lately. Feels like the words're dead. It feels like I've expressed all I can with them, that language is so limited for what I'm trying to express. I just sit there, late at night, the word document, blank, open, and wonder what I'm trying to say anymore, and it doesn't come. I'm just tired with this paltry use of words, it seems useless. I read some of my past poems, past stuff, and I realize how bad it is to me. I read someone else's poetry or writing and realize how much better they are than me. I don't have confidence is using these words anymore, I want to express myself in other ways, but there's no one to express this to. I just sit there and I'm pretty lonely, and I feel the physical release. I listen to the music and I get release. I flirt on a basic level with women at school because I am getting desparate to just have something that I can use to express myself with.

I don't think I'm good enough. I know it's useless anyway. I have no clue what I'm going to do when I graduate next year. All I know is that I'm told I should go to college and go for something. Sounds like wasting your life away to me.

Mitch--the real one, behind his cell, on his bed, thinking his thoughts, only laughs an evil laugh. Beside him, the murder is smiling.

The murder is smiling.

Besides that whole run-of-the-mill tangent, I think sleep is good. I've been taking naps a lot these past few days, and it's nice to just escape from the day. Because the day sucks and is a waste of time. But the night is something entirely different. While other people sleep, I work my hardest then.

In the day, dead. In the night, alive. Even though alive dead, and even though dead alive.
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Thursday, May 20, 2004

hjdsgfbdsateduiqgr vdwuytq UYDSAGHC UDSAv eaqgfdvuydsadvbuysavHJ

ROWAN TREE (the Sensitivity) - full of charm, cheerful, gifted without egoism, likes to draw attention, loves life, motion, unrest, and even complications, is both dependent and independent, good taste, artistic, passionate, emotional, good company, does not forgive.

It lies. I will not let it poison me with its barbs of thorns!

---

On another note, Mitch has a story to tell all ye kids. That's right! Gather round, and haggle. It's story time!

So there Mitch was. . .driving his 1985 Plymouth Reliant with a Newspaper staff member by the name of Alan. Mitch had been driving for some time, looking for where the source was--he had just came from a golf course where it was found the source was at another golf course on the other side of town.

Mitch was on the backstreets, going about his way. He came to a yield sign but did not yield--Mitch was rather tired of driving and wasn't feeling too good--he was rather impatient, wishing to get it over with already. So Mitch makes his left turn--and the Fates were on a smile. For when Mitch turned, right there, at the exact moment, came a police car, as if from nowhere but hell itself. Mitch heard Alan utter in a scream "Stop! It's a cop!" and Mitch, in a haze and halfasleep, did just that, barely missing Mr. Cop That Was There Just At The Right Time To Be There Somehow.

Mr. Cop pulled over on the side of the street, Mitch followed. Mr. Cop came out to Mitch, told Mitch he should pay more attention when he drives, that he should yield at yield signs. Mitch already knew this and was just so glad he hadn't hit this cop--he would've certain lost his license if he had, and that would be bad, one of the worst things because then his dad would be pissed, as well as he wouldn't be able to get a job and drive himself there this approaching summer. Mitch said "Yes sir" to everything Mr. Cop of Fate said, and shook his head up and down, and was glad when the cop was done. Then Mitch was on his way, shaken, but not stirred.

Mitch thinks he hates driving, as well as everything else in this world.

Also, Mitch's interview today went well. Mitch is ready, he thinks, to be a Fast Food Slave Bitch to McDonald's. Old McDonald had a farm ei ei o. And on his farm he had a Mitch ei ei o. With a ANGST ANGST here, and an ANGST ANGST here, HERE AN ANGST THERE AN ANGST. Old McDonald had a farm, ei ei o.

Mitch was interviewed by a woman whose name was Lindsey. The interview with Mitch seemed to have went smooth.

And that's all there is on the news tonight. I'm Tom Brokaw, have a good night (and I know I sure as hell won't).

Just remember kids: it's all yellow as piss. You may leave now children, Mitch is finished. Wasn't that a nice story? Well, I don't think so. . .I think it was rather a waste of time. So does Mitch. It is time for Mitch to do deviant, sinful things. OH ELECTRIC JESUS, SAVE ME WITH THINE SACRIFICES!
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Parabola

Today in Journalism they were having this petty conversation and argument about a "potato gun." There is a story pertaining to this and thus they had the recipe--how you can make it, if you will--and I could not have cared less than I did. The class--as with all my other classes--has been a waste of time this year. I just want school to end. And I'm not excited about summer, either, because I'm just going to be working most of the time, because you need a thing called money to do anything in this world.

So, as they were having their stupid, petty argument over whether or not to include the recipe, and whatever the hell else, I was just typing randomly on the keyboard of the macintosh (crapintosh) computer I usually use. I wasn't even typing words. I was just sitting there jamming on it out of boredom of waiting.

A while later, Mr. Winter comes over and tells me what they are discussing is "very important" and that I should get off the computer and listen. So I do and I still don't pay attention.

Around this time is when my heavily pessimistic mood came in, and ever since then I've had it. I'm glad I feel like this. It's much better than being the affable, acting-like-I'm-happy Mitch I've been in the past few weeks.

In Geometry, we got our tests back. I got 70/100, which is good, but I have a 67.4%--barely missing a C. Which is dissapointing but I don't even know why I care and I don't really care, deep down. We have a quarter test in the class on Monday. If I do well enough on it I could get my grade up to a C, a very low C but a C nonetheless. I probably won't even study, and just look over the shit before the last minute. I should do fine.

Yesterday my Latin teacher, as always, gave this big sermon on how no one even seems to care about Latin, and how we should be "studying Latin for thirty minutes" and how we should be "studying an hour" for tests. She always talks in this really annoyed stuck-up way. It's sort of bitchy now that I think about it. I mean, it's fine if she says this to us. . .but it's the same thing each and every single day. Maybe she would get the point that what she's teaching us is a waste of time? But then again I guess it doesn't get through thick-headed people like that. The density of some peoples' heads. I mean, one time in that class we were taking a quiz, which is what we do every single day it seems. I was slanted over in my chair so I could see her as she spoke. She told me to "move over and sit right in my chair." And I just sat there and sort of wondered, "Why is she even saying this? She sounds just like my dad, bitching about how you sit in a chair." She told me that the girl who sits in back of my, Lacey, could copy off my paper. Let's also not even mention the fact that that's how I usually, every day, sit in my chair when she's doing her quiz?

The only thing that matters to me anymore is looking at the women I see each day: coveting them. Every time I think of the word covet I shall eternally remember Hannibal Lecter.

I see your beauty as you walk me by
What I would give to have you
I see how pretty you are and I want it

Dear I want to ruin you like it's ruined me
Dear I want to control you like it's controlled me
Dear I want to kiss you like it's kissed me
Dear I just want you to make it all go away
I want you to do to me what I cannot do
I need your beauty so I can wreck it forever
like it's wrecked me

Don't you see dear?
You're only young once and you're only feeling what's real once
And they're both at the same time
And I just want you for mine
I have given up on everything else but what you can do for me
Don't you see dear?
Can you not hear?
Beauty fades and I want to see you fade because of me

I'm sick of here, I'm sick of this
I do not belong here we all know
I'm sick of this show.
I want to throw it all away,
I want to give it all to you
Being this human is being too weak
Here I am letting it be me
Can't you hear me, how I speak?

I would give you the world. . .my world
Not this world
I would give you the world. . .my world
Not this world
Not
This
World

So come here dear
Let's do what we're meant to do
Let's do our purpose
For this body I am in
This flesh, this useless skin
You know where to begin

You know where to begin
You know what to make
You know what I will give
What you will take.

---

In other news, Mitch has a job interview after school. It is at McDonald's. Mitch doesn't, told himself he wouldn't, work fast food, but he's desparate, and sick of looking for a job in this world they call reality. Mitch will try his best (worst) at this interview, and just maybe he'll get a job. He doesn't want this job, but Mitch needs a job for the summer, says his father, and says reality.

Guess it's time to waste away.
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Wednesday, May 19, 2004

When care has left you you find the arms to care for you.

How High Is Your Sex Drive?
Name
Age
Gender
Your Sex Drive Level Is.. - 8%
This Quiz by eva71 - Taken 131204 Times.

Get Free Daily Horoscopes from Kwiz.Biz

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Tool- The Patient

A groan of tedium escapes me, startling the fearful.
Is this a test?
It has to be. Otherwise I can't go on.
Draining patience, drain vitality,
this paranoid, paralyzed vampire act's a little ooold.

But I'm still right here, giving blood, keeping faith. And I'm still right here.
But I'm still right here, giving blood, keeping faith. And I'm still right heeeeeeeere.

I'm gonna wait it oooout
I'm gonna wait it oooout
I'm gonna wait it oooout

If there were no rewards to reeeeap,
loving embrace to see me throuuuugh,
this tedious path I've chosen heeeeere,
I certainly would've walked awaaay by nooooow.

I'm gonna wait it oooout.

If there were no desire to heaaaal,
The damaged and broken met alooong,
this tedious path I've chosen heeeere,
I certainly would've walked awaaay by nooooow.

-And I still may. And I still may.-

Be patieeent.
Be patieeent.
Be patieeent.

I must keep reminding myself of this...
I must keep reminding myself of this
I must keep reminding myself of this
I must keep reminding myself of this
I must keep reminding myself of this (repeats in background)

If there were no rewards to reaaaaap,
loving embrace to see me throuuuugh,
this tedious path I've chosen heeeeere,
I certainly would've walked awaaay by nooooow. ...(finishes repeating)
And I still maaaay.
And I still maaaay.
And I still maaaay.

And I...

Gonna wait it out.
Gonna wait it ouuuut.
Gonna wait it out.
Gonna wait it ouuuuut.

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Tool- The Grudge

Wear your grudge like a crown of negativity.
Calculate what we will or will not tolerate.
Desperate to control all and everything.
Unable to forgive your scarlet lettermen.

Clutch it like a cornerstone. Otherwise it all comes down.
Justify denials and grip it to the lonesome end.
Clutch it like a cornerstone. Otherwise it all comes down.
Terrified of being wrong. Ultimatum prison cell.
Saturn ascends, choose one or ten. Hang on or be humbled agaiiiiin.
I'm born againnnn....
I'm born againnnn....

Clutch it like a cornerstone. Otherwise it all comes down.
Justify denials and grip 'em to the lonesome end.
Saturn ascends, comes round again.
Saturn ascends, the one, the ten. Ignorant to the damage dooooone.

Wear your grudge like a crown of negativity.
Calculate what you will or will not tolerate.
Desperate to control all and everything.
Unable to forgive your scarlet lettermen.
Wear the grudge like a crown.
Desperate to control.
Unable to forgive. And sinking deeper.

Defining,
Confining,
Sinking deeper.
Controlling,
Defining,
And we're sinking deeper.

Saturn comes back around to show you everything
Let's you choose what you will not see and then
Drags you down like a stone or lifts you up again
Spits you out like a child, light and innocent.
Saturn comes back around. Lifts you up like a child
or drags you down like a stone to
Consume you till you choose toooooo let this goooooooo.
Choose tooooooo, let this gooooooo.

Give away the stone. Let the oceans take and transmutate this cold and fated anchor.
Give away the stone. Let the waters kiss and transmutate these leaden grudges into gold.

LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Let go, Let go, Let go, Let go, Let go
Let go, Let go, Let go, Let go
Let go, Let go, Let go, Let go
Let Goooooooooooooooo!
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Tuesday, May 18, 2004

Meety Your A Pock A Lips

He sat in his broken down wooden creaky chair with legs missing and screws loose and a hell of a lot more like he always did. That same vacant stare in his eyes as he watched his TV with the crooked antenna and the hazy reception and the black and white color. This night unlike any other that came before it in a ceaseless cycle he was watching the news. A reporter by the name of Donald Roole was blabbering on about something. The man had big wide staring eyes and rotund puffy cheeks with big fat man’s hands and the morbidly obese look of so many countless Americans because of their wonderful love of food. Mr. Roole at this moment was talking about something dealing with a poor little girl who had leukemia and who was in the hospital fighting for her life.

Mr. Roole’s fatingly unarousing face was replaced with a sad morose picture of the poor little girl. He watched with uncare in the same creaky chair with legs missing and screws loose and a hell of a lot more. Did he mention he didn’t care. Perhaps he had and perhaps he hadn’t but at least this little girl wasn’t going to have to suffer through what life had for her to rigor through. She did look like a little broken angel who never had any wings, though. The way her eyes peeked out at you from under her bed, all those machines hooked up to her, all those tubes. Now that looked like the life if there ever was a life.

“The doctors estimate she will only live for a month, and even then. . .they say it’s hopeless,” said Mr. Roole as his fat unappetizing face reappeared on the screen as if trying to bear witness to the sadness of the story and peak on it. Water of oncoming tears were reflecting in his eyes, making it look like they were irritated. He kept blinking and blinking and blinking to try and stop the oncoming tumult of tears. The black and white lips of Mr. Roole’s face were fluttering. His double—no triple—no quadruple—chins moved up and down as he contorted his fat face. There was a moment of naked silence, just Mr. Roole and his lips fluttering like they were scared and his wide staring eyes repressing water and his double—no triple—no quadruple—chins going up and down. Then it was over and thank god. The dramatics of the situation were like watching a soap opera. And he didn’t like showers. Especially not soap. And opera was a terrible form of entertainment—when they sang they sounded like women cooing during orgasm at ungodly high screech.

“In other news,” began The Fat Morbidly Obese Man, “scientists say it may be likely a meteor will hit the earth sometime this week. They say the meteor is five miles wide and could be devastating if it were to hit the Earth. This is not the first known case of scientists saying a meteor may hit the Earth. But still, some are saying it is the end of the world as we know it and are preparing for it. While others say it’s a farce.” The screen went to an old woman’s face with dinky glasses and white hair clinging to her forehead in small tufts.

“Yes, we have predicted a meteor has a chance to hit the Earth; however, the probability of such an occurance is not too likely. But there is more chance with this one than any other meteor that has come close to the Earth.” Her voice was like listening to hell, it sort of was so frail and so damn broken. The woman looked like she would just fall over dead right there. Seems she was still ticking nonetheless. Tick tick, tick tick. Tick tick tick tick. He smiled at this and had been paying intent attention. It was going to be the end of the world maybe! It’s what he had prayed (well, not really) for his whole life. What more was there to ask?

And there was nothing. Nothing to ask. Nothing more.

The TV went back to Mr. I’m So Fat I Have Rolls To Feed You With And Enough Girth To Crush You Like A Worm. He looked more collected, and ended with, “That’s a scary thing to hear. I know I’ll be praying. . .lord yes.” Oh dear god, now he was getting all religious. He smiled again and thought how weak this bastard looked right now. Like god, if there was one, cared. Like he really cared. “This is KMY News, Channel 7. Have a good night.” Yes. Have a goodnight too. They say heart attacks come when you least expect them. Maybe you can expect death to drop you a line. Or maybe you can burn off those calories over calories over calories Mr. Piggy Pig. Then death won’t have his deathly way with you. Either way those scientists said the meteor is coming. Better hope one kills you first Mr. Oinky.

He got up out of his piece of shit chair. He needed a new one but didn’t have the funds. He always spent his money as fun money and that was good for him. Money is just paper inked so who cares. Commerce is like sex: it’s worth something only if everyone puts a value on it, and if everyone believes a piece of paper with ink on it can rule their lives. But everyone thinks sex is the greatest thing ever and they put immense value on it and it’s not paper. Since it’s not paper maybe it isn’t like commerce. But then again, the sameness is so damn obvious. Sex can be given, can be received. So can the green paper But sex is a king and money is a ten of spades. Read em and weep.

He couldn’t understand how they could just write this genius thought off, veto it like Gerald Ford, give it pardon like a rolicking crooking Richard Nixon. He didn’t know and realized he was pretty crazy if crazy was crazy. His thoughts were all over the place. This was a massacre. So in his mind he reached on in and shut off the lamp. Night night.

It was late anyway. He had work tomorrow. They said work equals force times distance and they were right. The force is being forced to work your entire life just so you can live in this bureaucracy with all the money the greed the “fiscal” (the word sounded like fish, only not) financial matters. The distance was the isolation the work forced upon you because you were coerced to work and be a slave and say, “Yes master. Yes master I do as you say, for you are master and I am useless slave bitch. Useless slave bitch is useless and he does only as master orders useless slave bitch.” He felt the distance right now sure as hell. If work were a bunny he would be having some bunny for supper sometime soon. But it wasn’t so it just wasn’t. And that meant he couldn’t have any bunny and it also meant he had to work tomorrow so he needed to sleep.

“Tell me about the bunnies, George,” was the last thought flooding into his head like a drying dam. It was too bad dam doesn’t have an “n.” It would have so much more power if it did. But damn, dam doesn’t give a damn so it’s just dam and not damn. That’s just the damndest thing if there ever was a damn thing that was damndest. Damn dam.

He was in his broken useless missing the springs hard as rocks and steel bed. He closed his eyes and he was free. Free like an eagle in the sky with the feathers and the beak and the immaculate eyesight. And he was seeing through a special eyeglass crafted by master dwarves (read: himself) that let him see the dreamy-est dreams he ever dreamed. It was here that he dreamed a harrowing dream about a certain meteor hitting the Earth and the causing of a certain cataclysmic apocalypse. In this dream I can tell you he smiled a smile so wide it is an understatement to say his mouth did not fall to the ground and did not crack in half for joy and amazement. For it is the cracks we always see.

He opened those two spheres we sometimes call eyes that look like two planets on the face of some alien that is really ourselves. The eyes were full of happiness and he said aloud to himself that dreams usually come true and maybe this dream he dreamed was going to come true. But then again he said to himself maybe not. He made a personal note within his thing called a mind and told himself to write in his journal about the dream as well as write a story—probably short—about it. For he was a writer and writers do one thing and only one thing and that’s the only thing they do and that is write. Sometimes they get a bone now and then too. But that’s rare. What’s even rarer is a writer writing something that is genius in person. Writing words that will be kept within someone’s memory banks for their entire lives. Writing words which shall be remembered for ages and ages until there is no more ages.

The hot heat of water torrented his skin and he was naked. Maybe you don’t want a picture of him naked in your head but I can say he is a nice looking man. I am not gay and I am not homosexual and I am not metrosexual for this. I am a straight man and straight as the Strait of Gibraltar. Mr. Bush can shove it with his "We need an amendment banning gay marriages because I am a stupid religious zealot!" For it does say in the constitution "All men are created equal," and obviously it is not correct. Inebitably they will get their rights. So fuck all you who think being gay is wrong. Fuck you to the depths of heeby boo. Thank you and adieu.

There was steam as he stepped out and wiped his naked body with a towel. He is now putting on clothes. It is a wonder we even wear clothes is what he is thinking. Clothes are so confining they are like another form of chains only they aren’t chains because they’re clothes and clothes are made of fabric and chains are made of metal or steel or something like that. He was now fully dressed it was a fully monty. Work was going to begin in thirty minutes so he got on his way.

He changed into his work habiliments in the bathroom. When he was in the bathroom he looked at the walls—there was always fresh meat to read here and it was addicting. More addicting than addicting is. Or ever will be.

The freshest meat was a message written in a crude scrawl. “NeD Sex? CaLL 555-232.” He knew one thing and that was that he didn’t “Ned” sex. Maybe need. But not Ned. Ned was a pretentious asshole upstuck name. That wasn’t the type of thing he wanted. He took out a napkin and decided, spontaneously, to write down the number. He used a napkin. Maybe he would give a call and take them up on this “Nedding” sex.

He stepped out and came to his manager. He said his greetings and was on his way to work when he went in the back and saw Geraldo and Rosie in another one of their goddamned tustles. The two were like lovers and it was the truth. Only lovers got in a tissy like this. A big tissy fit over nothing. This time they were fighting over the fact of the matter of how to “correctly” make bacon. He stepped in and told them to quit it with the goddamned tissy tustle. He said they should get married already they’re just like lovers. Just like two lovebirds. They responded with laughs at his amazing sarcasm. He said it’s okay, his sarcasm was just a chasm that never ended and was always full of things to say. He also instructed them there was no certain way—no “correct way”—to make bacon. Bacon was bacon was pig and you cooked it however. No one cares as long as it is bacon. That ended that and he had saved the day. He was superman and they were cretins—small little peasants in the caste system. But, they were “pleasant peasants” to him. And pleasant is a nice word. As beautiful as pheasants. Why, they were pheasants. Two lovebirds. What a genius connection he thought as he got an apron on and prepared to cook.
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Monday, May 17, 2004

Tool- Lateralus

Black then white are, all i see in my infancy.
Red and yellow then came to be, reaching out to me.
Lets me see.

As below, so above and beyond, I imagine
drawn beyond the lines of reason.
Push the envelope. Watch it bend.

Over thinking, over analyzing separates the body from the mind.
Withering my intuition, missing opportunities and I must
Feed my will to feel my moment drawing way outside the lines.

Black then white are, all i see in my infancy.
red and yellow then came to be, reaching out to me.
lets me see
there is so much more and beckons me
to look through to these infinite possibilities.
As below, so above and beyond, I imagine
drawn outside the lines of reason.
Push the envelope. Watch it bend.

Over thinking, over analyzing separates the body from the mind.
Withering my intuition leaving opportunities behind.

Feed my will to feel this moment, urging me to cross the line.
Reaching out to embrace the random.
Reaching out to embrace whatever may come.

(I embrace myyy
desire to)
(I embrace myyy
desire to)
feel the rhythm, to
feel connected,
enough to step aside and,
weep like a widow, to
feel inspired, to
fathom the power, to
witness the beauty, to
bathe in the fountain, to
swing on the spiral, to
swing on the spiral, to

swing on the spiral of
our divinity and
still be a humannnnnnnnn

With my feet upon the ground I move myeslf between the sounds and open wide to suck it in.
I feel it move across my skin.
I'm reaching up and reaching out. I'm reaching for the random or what ever will bewilder me.
what ever will bewilder me.
And following our will and wind we may just go where no one's been.
We'll ride the spiral to the end and may just go where no one's been.
(Spiral out. Keep going.)
(Spiral out. Keep going.)
(Spiral out. Keep going.)
(Spiral out. Keep going.)

---

I listen to this song over and over and over again, and each time I hear it end I just think wow. Wow, that's all I can say. It's so amazing that there isn't words I can use to describe how amazing it is.

Dowload this song, buy Tool's Lateralus album, whatever. But listen to me, and believe me when I say this song's amazing, and the entire Lateralus album as well. If you want good music, then right here's a heads-up.

It's amazing towards the end, too. It just blows my mind.
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Lateralus.

Everyone is entitled to my opinion.
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