It's not about the name, it's about a knotted up bluesy tune strummed out of my strung out guitar bashed n' smashed onto the sidewalk, where the rain will undoubtedly drag it down down towards the sewer. So is that where my mind is now? The gutter? Yes. I feel so hopeless, I feel nothing. I feel like I'm dead inside. Yet still scared of people who will misread every word I type. I type so little now but I don't write as often either. I feel vacant, and cold, where is your god now? I cannot find a way, to have this make any sense. How long do I stretch it on? For as long as I can, before I off myself, and people read the signs, that were there a long time ago. I feel the visions of myself dying, tearing away at me. I see myself punching my own reflection, my own mirror. I see myself ripping myself silently to shreds, stomping on the floor like a little child, crying at the first cold word out of someone's lips. Floating away from my ears I push the words away they bat n' claw at my