Social perceptions are lowthe truth of things is not something i particularly likei go more for a good story than what really happenedthat is just the way i ami hate to tell yabut your opinions,few minutes after leave(d) your lipsthey're lining the trashcan at the back of my mindthere where my inner idiot live(s)they're not bindingthey're not locked away in a vault somewheretying me to your word waiting to be exhumedis not a legal contract (as if i cared anyway)i'll remain to this day free to contradict meselfa compelling raconteur rescued from oblivionthere is a trip to bedlam whispering nonsenseshaggy stories full of strangeness and twisted wisdoma demented burlesque while shopping for brasjunkyard scholars smoking grass,smilingremarkable consistency of the scentfragrance that becomes most strikingas we chart a path between themthrough Bedlam full of unexpected turnsbut startlingly free of wrong onesbrilliance is a givenon account of what you achieve with itinsanity is a trademad-doctors and lunaticssharing drugs and howling to the skyas to keep away recoverywho needs to know what is really happeningin the real world psychopaths are in chargeplaying with their rules makes anything worthless. icknos@Bedlamismyworld.ciao.FUCK.com