Here I am fucking buzzin, fucking high on life, for want of so much more of a fucking better phrase, and where are all you fuckers to be with me through it? I've never needed anyone before, but at the one time when I do, two of you hang around for a bit before fucking off, and the rest are nowhere to be seen. Plus all the other fucking billions of people in the fucking world who aren't as cold as me, and don't drink disgusting brandy to try and cover up the fucking fact that fucking happiness exists, and can fucking creep up on you at any fucking moment when you're reading a fucking book and rip your fucking face off, sit there and fucking wiggle. So where are all you fuckers right now? At this precise moment, 23:38 GMT what the fuck are you doing? Who were you shooting when JFK got shot? And what the fuck are you fucking doing right now? Are you shivering as much as me? It's not a physical shiver of course; have you ever felt a metaphysical shiver? It's like those famed pee shivers that people seem in the dark about, but I've felt, I've experienced, I've had, but am too shy to share, usually, but right fucking now, I'm so fucking high and buzzing on nothing at all but a fucking book. Isn't life so fucking wonderful? I can make happiness bitter and fucking twisted lemon too, just fucking bring it on. I can kill all of you, just by thinking it. I am your fucking god; I am all things to all men, and many things to some women. Everyone loves, me. They don't know it yet, but they, do. I'd break a toe just to bring me a step down, but I can be killed so easily as you showdnded you nameless person who wants to me be named, but I won't as revenge. I hate you, but love you too. If only there were some 69 minute long song that could maintain my interest, keep me buzzin, and stem the killing firs from fielding the awkward questions. It's so fucking amazing what life can do. Imagine this for a second, if you will. Here we go. There are well over 200 of you; presume at the lowest estimate that 50 of you actually read this, that there is 50 fucking people that I can make read this shit that I'm churning out here at 23:44 GMT with fucking as every second fucking word. Can you fucking believe it? I have a slight attempt at power over 50 people. Out of billions, both alive, and that have lived (that wasn't a talk, and it certainly wasn't outré, but it got me through, did it not?) that's nothing, but out of people you know, it's loads. How many fucking people do you know? Not 50, I'll bet. I bet there aren't 50 people you could make read a bunch of shit that you churn out when I high on life, drinking to mask the happiness that you shouldn't be allowed to feel. I am fucking god. Can you fucking believe it? And that's not even why I'm happy. I'm happy just because of a fucking book. Can you fucking believe it? Welcome to this Utopia of today where one fucking book can bring a state of such delirious happiness that it can scare people so fucking much that they run screaming to the nearest town crier, and ask said crier to cry for them because we live in a world that is an emotionless void where no-one is ever happy, and they only ever fucking tell people they fucking love them when they are drunk or high. Can you fucking believe it? Who the fuck are you to complain? It's making you laugh or think or be or something, isn't it? If it's not music you're not fucking interested are you? Well try fucking crying then. I cried tonight, but it might have been a fucking stroke. I'm still fucking shivering. It's 23:50 GMT and I'm fucking wondering where to I didn't want to on such a low attacking note, but my high is being drained by your meaningless souls, so I'll go piss, and be back, hoping some fucker is willing to sit through the shivering with me.