i'm in an old section of town, in a small room where the lights are dim and the air is thick with wisps of cigarette smoke. that doesn't really seem to faze me as the experience starts to blur the line between my surroundings and my own manifest. it seems as though i'm a prop, an accessory to complete the scene. yet the only reason why i complete the scenario, is because i'm there to experience it. inside that room, i listen to amazing music bourne out of those who dedicated their lives to the art. perhaps, one of the things i really live for. i need to get out.
i'm getting a pimple. hasslehof.