Get some rest, son
This life is a tired old whore
We run ourselves
Risk our souls
Drag our shells through
rotten alleys
It is never not to dwell
A hung head is a thing of
beauty In a world of
addictions Each a cough
and a choke
and a "How do you don't"
They will say slants
A roof a precipice
Balance just right an impossible
wish
"It will be better next time" they will say
But you will always know
That they are full of shit
This life is a tired old whore
We run ourselves
Risk our souls
Drag our shells through
rotten alleys
It is never not to dwell
A hung head is a thing of
beauty In a world of
addictions Each a cough
and a choke
and a "How do you don't"
They will say slants
A roof a precipice
Balance just right an impossible
wish
"It will be better next time" they will say
But you will always know
That they are full of shit
I had just gotten hip to this zine and the gentleman's corpus of work. I don't know any details - none of my business, naturally - but as someone who struggles with depression ebbing in and out of self-destructive conspiracies, I feel for the young man and fear the example of a rising good egg brought low by whichever hordes of myriad globetrotting demons pushed him out of his work and out of our world. RIP.
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