Park bench at 4 AM. Woods and the moon at 5 AM. Dark.
While you rot and vegetate in your warm home, I'm out at the remote edges. The places no-one visits.... I'm surprised I'm the only person that goes out to the far, distant countryside; it surpasses the environment where these dull people prepare for death.
As I walk past the suburban streets at night, accompanied by lamp-posts that illuminate my path, I see 40-year-old replicas of my mother ironing as the television is on. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition.
THE SUBURBS DREAM OF VIOLENCE.
