Stream.

It's overrated really, sunshine. Fuck the day, sleep through it, and if it isn't burning out by the time your eyes open, drink until it's embers on the tree line. Humidity, heat, chemical radiation, fuck that. Close the eyes, run the clock, turn the world until the only light is from dim, deathly, orange glowing streetlights and the reflections of what is.

Everyone's got it out for the chemically enhanced. The smoker, the drinker, the crack addict, that kid hopped up on E walking around town that you want to strangle. Everyone does what they have to do to get by. You listen to whiny, angsty music about how life sucks and love has been lost forever, he watches mind-numbing game shows to dull down his senses and ignore the life on his hands, she exercises until she collapses from exhaustion once she gets home so that she can ignore the emptiness of wasted life, and I do what I must because I can. Nobody's any different from the next, they just think they are. Think that one vice is less harmful, less deadly than another. Sure, he may be slumming around, blitzed out of his mind, but he's not stuffing three cheeseburgers down his throat with a milkshake chaser. Everybody's vice will catch them eventually, everyone's time will run out, everyone's world will turn from shit to ash, and all the refuse will be swept up into the casket and buried deep.

A kiss and a squeeze, a forty-five with ease puts my thoughts on the wall, the world, the girl -- lost in a chemical swirl stands as a symbol for the spiritual, the cult-like religious metaphysical.