Outline

I walked out of the interview second question because I wasn't in the best mood to reflect on myself. Punk rock ain't preparation, but at least it offers opportunity to escape. Sometimes I feel like an outline of myself, dead-eyed and disconnected. If the world is a stage and we are all players, then I fuck up my lines more than intended.

Are we all animals in here? I'm conscious that I'm losing control.

Escapism, framed and wrapped by a rock 'n' roll historian. Weathered in Leatherspoons. Two-for-one cocktail mess, More shots in the jug, please. My rose-tinted glasses smashed in the last bar, now all I see is carnage. It ain't romantic, it's not rock n' roll. We are drinking from plastic, when did we get old?

I can't remember my reasons for getting this fucked in the first place. Maybe it's somebody's birthday? Or just another Thursday in this big-fish-little-pond town. And drinking real ale don't make you a connoisseur, more of an arrogant piss-artist who's assigning higher worth to his destruction.

We're decaying daily. The carpet in this place is worn and so am I. And we're so scared of failing, we'll pretend that we don't even try. It's the cyclical nature of life and the cynical nature of lies that keep us spinning. I walked out of the interview second question.