The Amen Trip (2002/11/27).

My dreams gnaw at me, slow ruin. I reached for the sun, but the sky collapsed into shadow. This cursed awareness burns—every step betrays me, every dawn mocks me with its pale indifference.

My mind lies in tatters. Drugs, vodka, sex—once fire, now ash. The cure has curdled, the panacea gone. So I summon heavier weapons, a war against feeling itself.

Aim. Fire. No more emotions. Veins cut, heart torn— better death than this trash heap of living. Too late, too early, too nothing. I wanted life, but life spat me back into the underground, where I fuck, trip, drink, or maybe want nothing at all.

Shoot, kill, erase desire. Her happiness, mine—both illusions. Give me hospitals, give me whores, give me forgetting. Not a day without her ghost. I would trade everything to forget. Teach me to feel, or teach me not to. End this suffering with a bullet, with a needle, with a pill.

I loved the game once— it was lighter, easier. Now nothing matters, life owes me nothing. So I end it, close my eyes, and whisper amen to the eternal sleep, to the endless trip.