rapping over this funky beat nothing left to say that's how it always started typing fast but barely thinking food full of stomach errors errors all over crunched up laughing dying home from the movie you know last king of scotland seen it maybe in your own brain space dictator killer who you don't see kill but you take his word for it how does he use his physicality to report and retouch things writing to myself as usual only one listening flying birds track playing in the background no dogs to come home to what does it matter have to shower and do my thing people hate me it's all the same song is over bring you in and out of the beat funkdified why are they afraid of me who would you be most likely to make love to and why would it matter white romantics learned people but what have they killed no one loves you no one has the real love or time not even a little bit the headaches coming on where is the sympathy did dostoyevsky want sympathy or pity during his dark times was he a fast writer when he spoke of spiders too many symbols crowding the page got into a labyrinth i can't get out now the thing is sown old and sold looked at my teeth and at my crotch to make sure everything was working no one left to write things to, no good words, only the blogs to read and to get back imaginary emails so fuck them i should just write anyway whatever i will call.