In the deepest forest, in a tribe separated from all other cultures, the wise elder wakes in a cold sweat. ''A vile man,'' he rasps. ''He is without honor, without humility. A culprit of abhorrent art. I fear him. I fear some day that we may know him.'' The elder closes his eyes for the last time. In his passing, he contently escapes the visions of McSkulley.

I enjoy long walks on the beach and skull ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ the corpses of my enemies.

Don't say another ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ word. Up until now, I've been polite. If you say anything else - one word - I will kill myself. And when my tainted spirit finds its destination, I will topple the master of that dark place. From my black throne, I will lash together a machine of bone and blood, and fueled by my hatred for you this fear engine will bore a hole between this world and that one. When it begins, you will hear the sound of children screaming - as though from a great distance. A smoking orb of nothing will grow above your bed, and from it will emerge a thousand starving crows. As I slip through the widening maw in my new form, you will catch only a glimpse of my radiance before you are incinerated. Then, as tears of bubbling pitch stream down my face, my dark work will begin. I will open one of my six mouths, and I will sing the song that ends the Earth.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of the night.

I COULD GO OFF THE DEEP END, I COULD KILL ALL MY BEST FRIENDS, I COULD FOLLOW STYLISH TRENDS AND GOD KNOWS I COULD MAKE AMENDS.
BUT I'VE GOT AN ANGRY HEART FULL OF CANCERS AND PUPPY TARTS.
IF THIS IS HOW YOU FOLKS MAKE ART, IT'S ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ DEPRESSING.
AND IT'S SAD
TO KNOW
THERE'S NO HONEST WAY OUT.