The heart of me is all torn up, my throat has caught on fire, like I could pull my insides out and watch the flames get higher. Everything now tastes of blood, or ash, or hate, or lies — I cannot speak, I cannot think, for screams behind my eyes. I need a sign, need anything, to make some sense of this — of what I’m feeling, what I see, what kind of hell this is. I’ll carve away my demons; I’ll bleed away the dark. I’ll have some satisfaction, or tear myself apart.
Rhythm & Guts
Jones, what is the point of satisfaction? It’s just the tearing and the wrenching that makes sense. Satisfaction is a lazy-ass rich person sitting on a beach. I hope they get eaten by a shark. I bet they hope they get eaten by a shark. You and me, though, we are meant for being torn to pieces. We are.
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