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Fucked Up College Kids File 304
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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ipf-1-hb
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How bizarre.
Streams of regret twist through my darkened soul. I see the light of
reason permeate the translucent haze of my understanding but yet I still
cower in the corner. Images of past defeat are the trademarks of my
emotional compass. How many times have I wanted to go back? When did
the resounding clamor of my promises dissipate? Why is it that I am here
again?
How bizarre.
It has often been said that hindsight brings reason into a situation. But
why is it that hindsight hounds me into turmoil? If reason exists in this
contorted reality why can't I see it? I can feel the vibrating chords of
regret's chorus resonate in the chamber of my heart. I can see the
blinding images of my past as they shatter the lens of my soul. Is my
existence a metaphor. Is a metaphor my existence?
How bizarre.
I see the actions which have driven me to the edge. I can nearly taste
the tears upon my lips. Will a clinical diagnosis provide solstice? I
doubt. Nothing more. The logical progression of ideal experiences are
intoned in my conscienceness. But why can I not follow in the path of
such logic? Why must I praise self-destruction like a golden calf?
Even sleep deprives me of the escape it once provided. Dreams spit the
cold venom of failure into the eye of sub-conscience.
How bizarre.
I love. I hate. I rage. Extreme emotions breathe the steady flow of
life into the lungs of my mind. Introverted analysis paints a picture of
mental calamity. Extroverted expressions swath the canvass of reputation
with the dark brush of insanity, dripping with the black ink of Never
Forget. How many visitors to the museum of my soul leave wanting a
refund? How often are the paintings in my gallery scorned? Life is.
Life was. Life will always be. The usher will seat you now.
How bizarre.
-. illusionary .-
.- 15 apr 1997 -.
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