In this bottle I only share my pain, my strife, my wish. Those who know the burden of inner conflict, emotional exploitation and the struggle for self preservation...this is for you.

I'm not a hero. I'm not a saint. I've walked the darkest alley and befriended the lowest of the low. Always trying to fly straight and do what's right, I fail and persecute myself for it. My body was a temple, my mind was a shrine and my thoughts were gospel.

Now I sit here alone, all alone, in the midst of masses I find solace in this isolation. I walk the streets and hide my eyes, my face...my spirit. I look into your eyes, and I see the same pain, the same struggle and the same captive soul. I see it in the drunk on the corner, I see it in the daily commuter,  I see it in the mid-level cubicle man on his way to a lunch for one.

I'm not going to insult your intelligence and say that I have the answer or tell you that everything is going to be alright. I'm also not going to tell you that what I'm making will change anything or make you look like something you want to be. I sit here and send this message adrift with hopes that you will find it. I offer this expression to you. Just a weathered soul harboring an army of madness without wielding a fist. Producing what can only be described as controlled chaos.

 
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