LA told me, “You’ll be a pop star
All you have to change is everything you are.”

I’m trying to build a company. Europe’s giving me pesticide for my dreams. Just two-way doors that don’t open from either side. What hurts the most is that, while others get millions for a deck of jokers, they point that we’ve built a house of cards. They fail to see it even when it’s right in front of them. We’ve shown them with numbers, real production numbers, and they still don’t see it. They don’t want to see it.

Fuck your games. Your identity through opposition is disgusting. I know what it takes to succeed, but I’m not willing to do it. George knows it well.

Most days feel like we’re caught in an ideological prison, each ad a warped mirror stretching our confinement into a mocking eternity of false freedom. We’re crushed by the weight of infinite reflections, a claustrophobic hall of mirrors amplifying the walls closing in. But sometimes the prison walls become visible and the silence lines your lies and lights the mire like the fire leeches:

The real political conflict is between an ordered structure of society and those left without a place within. Gould said:

“I am, somehow, less interested in the weight and convolutions of Einstein’s brain than in the near certainty that people of equal talent have lived and died in cotton fields and sweatshops.”

I’ve seen those people. I’ve helped some of them. I’ve been some of them. I’ve lived at the edge of near certainty.

Is my life simply confined to working a 9-5 in a flock of truths? Is this what they‘re trying to tell me? What they‘re missing is that the Eastern Bloc forged me in the fires of everything I despise. I don’t deal the cards in life, but I will be playing mine to the end. My wing beat will be your hurricane.

Fuck you.