Williamsburg bridge blood bath

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the blood of my insides fill the Williamsburg bridge. My artwork becomes about this fucking disgusting TV show that squeezes the cum and internals of my cock. Again and again it continues through this on this show. Less and less human, I can only latch onto what's left of it. As though this will ever end, and it must but day and night I run through this. The ratings of my ability to model and act become a certain matter of figuring and guessing what you think on the outside. I still want the Williamsburg trine if that's possible I don't see why not. They burn my insides daily so I attempt to mold it, it rushes my writing. The holographic lights fuck with me day and night. A character I disabled as a person now rants day and night. Even if we failed Williamsburg we'd continue, but we're the biggest shit ever why would we fail? I still meant it despite anything that was revealed in reality. I hate having my brain read, I miss the silence and freedo. My humanity once retained I cried out got those I knew in my youth last night. I reach out to my hipsters. I fucking reach through my sexuality and run through the plotpoints in this game. I'm tired of living through some he'll of lacked psychological state. I become something else, the option of staying a Jesus Christ Art Star psychologically locked in madness pissing art and bleeding ctch phrases. I practice my religion on the crucifiction of art and chaos magick. The lights cause a squeamish feeling. There's something perfect in these moments passed the Williamsburg bridge. This same shit these same methods happened in Manna-hatta. This neo-Brooklyn bridged version of Mqnna-hatta/blog accompanying to Silver Tiles is a companion piece to the psychotics of the show you're watching. Can't go back been here before. I was right about everything. I hope hipster girls relate to my diminished state I bleed from the insides what the fuck are they doing to my cock? I kinda wanna throw up.

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