J was in a depression. He sat contemplating why he existed and where he could pick up on Germy’s trail without another delusion presenting itself. The unreality had blurred his perception like a refresher towel wiping across his brain, leaving a smooth pink surface. He sheathed his knife, realising he was merely parrying at phantoms, the shimmering figures in his blind spot. He knew in his own mind that Eastern Heaven is not good at this time of year. In fact, the weather would be crap if, indeed, Eastern Heaven existed. He vowed never to do drugs again (a vow that would last all of fifteen minutes). From his Swiss cheese memory, he recalled (with vagueness) his days on the feculent fringes of the music industry. Waves of emotion flowed through him sporadically as he began to blame himself for the death of the one of his few vaguely supportive associates in the music industry, Burt Kocain.
This depression, as it usually does, turned into despair and as in all things in his life, this despair turned into pure unadulterated hate for that man, that stupid motherfuckingcuntbitchwhore Germy Urine. (Note: man used in the most generic form, as it had not been confirmed whether Germy was a man or just a reckless entity). After this he decided the only solution was to self-destruct. To aid him in this task, he went and scored some Peyote.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
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