Jesus Built My Hotrod.

'Why'd you do it?' is what everyone keeps asking.

'Just a change.'

You'd think someone would realize that such a major change to my outward appearance might signify something more significant.

But then, most don't seem to notice these sorts of things.

I'm on a

Strike

Riot, riot, riot

This is the end of an era

And the beginning of

Nothing

Oh, just then I found a note in my pocket

It read:

Nothing.

Blank pieces of paper. Blank slates.

Can't find the spoon that we once had.

The sugar cube will melt no more.

We belong us, to-to-together.

But we don't. Or at least, I don't.

I've completely

Lost myself

And because of that

I don't even know

How that makes me feel

Swim in feedback, sleep in distortion, lay beneath a sky of sine waves, make love under a blanket of white noise.

Die by the jagged tone of a square wave.

What is this, that she is hiding, this thing that glows so hatefully in the rising moonlight?

Why do I hold this candle? The wax burns and burns and burns my fingertips.

And yet I hold it still.