i order a cup of coffee. i light a cigarette, i think of you and get a cigarrection. i always do. i pull up my hip coffee drinking consumer face and hide. i wonder where you are. and then between a drag off my cig and a sip of coffee, i realize that i dont even know who you are. you were a client. and im just a broken boy toy. over engineered. actually i cant even remember your face.
you could here, in this cybercafe and i wouldnt know. its the same reason i dont look in the mirror in the bathroom after ive pissed you out of my system, because i never recognize the face in the mirror. its like an old rendition of me. i take another pill while pretending to fix my eyeliner, my body gauge says 54, but my mind gauge says 23.
over engineered is a pain in the ass. i dont do this for money anymore. i feel like everything i do, is like the emperors new art, it doesnt exist. why isnt my pleasure program working? im mensa smart, im talented, im a great lay and im a loyal friend. yet im stuck in this apartment set wishing i hadnt sold my gun, so i could put it in my mouth.
witness the witless. talent doesnt mean youre good. sucessful doesnt mean happy. future doesnt mean you have one. all i know for sure, is that i was over engineered for here. im tired of playing dumb. actualy im tired of playing. actualy im just fucking tired. im going to put the opening piano chords of "you never give me your money" by the beatles on repeat and close down.
"oh that magic feeling, where did it go" as they sing in the song. thats the question. yet i am too over engineered to realize what it means. welcome to heaven.