This Count... I feel as if I'm looking at my future self. Mega bucks, big-ass house, fast cars, dining in style with a world class chef and a trusted nutritionist counting every calorie! A team of hot Yoga instructors to keep me in shape... Nurses, to attend to my body... Maids and loyal servants at my beck and call... On the weekends, tanned babes knocking on my door every two hours... Every day full of excitement and luxury, that'd be the life! Everything in its right place, it's the perfect life, it's the life of winners! That'll be my life! I thirst for selflessness, hypocrites lusting for their own desire to get killed by young rookies like me! This is how it goes down... And for the old killers? They'll croak anyway. I guess you could call this a "Comedy". I realize there's really nothing here for me. But what else CAN I do but keep going? Maybe I should've been a little more careful before I jumped in... Gotta find the exit... Gotta find that exit, to Paradise! But I can't see it... I can't see anything! There's this sense of doom running down my spine like it's... Like it's trying to suck the life out of me! I need to get rid of it, before I bail... Something deeper, something deeper than my instincts is taunting me! Can't find the exit... Can't find the exit... Can't find the exit... Can't find the exit... Can't find the exit...

Lingering lingerie of luminescence stretched along dokey drab deplores of material commencing. But what about the barley buttered bagels and rice? Barley barely brings back better bumps in me, and then he was me, and I was they, where the prospect of being was toppled abruptly into the bin containing the fester and feathers of which I am made. Oh my sweet inscrutable consolation of luminous constellation, do we privy to produce a wish before the lonesome and the broke such as my own viscera mori? If you are of such prestigious and fever as the clapper girls on the street would believe in my stead, I have change for the payment of the belief that a wish should be granted to the haunt splayed before you as I present at time current. I'd prefer if which I was the type who would manifest destiny across a prairie ride with a West way wind languidly rapping and tapping its whip along my rickety spine. The gunslinger type with teeth made of bullets and lungs filled with amber resin. Not a thorn in my side, on a stallionated locomotive. Pauper, I'd name him and on the wind he would carry me until my freedom was mine and mine alone. Then I would ride for the silent valley that eludes my dreams by the width of a hair of a hare. In the shadow of which I would set Pauper loose along the way and commence upon my home in the drop of the valley's own blanket woven without any lumens over the valley's floor. In that home my grave would be and that is all the wishing that I wish out of me.