berserking on, slaying them bad thoughties, he realized that hell is different than not smelling flowers in Paradise. brain simmering in acid, both kings of the chess-board watching your every fart, swirling your path in ways you could never predict, get used to or survive without scars. by the end of each day you kinda doubt that you are really here, the idea of having a name and a face seems absurd. there are only ghosts and simple programs. and me.