It's this new thing, applying straight lines and edges to natural beings.
They did it with me, you know, that's where all my creativity went-- stuck inside a neat little box.
Writer's bricked off, square, block.
It's hard to be sixteen, you know. Everything's hard in general.
Do I quite know what I'm saying right now? No, not particularly. Perhaps I'm just outreaching to a bunch of people who aren't there, who don't read what I write. Maybe you're all just a bunch of robots staring at a screen as I do now, my mechanic fingers typing away at the keys.
Anyway, I procrastinate. Goodbye.
