"Now I know we said things did things that we didn't mean and we fall back into the same patterns same routines but your temper's just as bad as mine is you're the same as me but when it comes to love you're just as blinded baby please come back it wasn't you baby it was me maybe our relationship isn't as crazy as it seems maybe that's what happens when a tornado meets a volcano all I know is I love you too much to walk away though come inside pick up your bags off the sidewalk don't you hear sincerity in my voice when I talk told you this is my fault look me in the eyeball next time I'm pissed I'll aim my fist at the dry wall next time there won't be a next time I apologize even though I know it's lies I'm tired of the games I just want her back I know I'm a liar if she ever tries to fucking leave again I'ma tie her to the bed and set this house on fire."

Self-sovereignty attaches to it the imprisonment of emotional chaos; how can that logical former possibly overcome the naked potency of that all-destructive latter; as if the concept of choice were at all inextricable from that of the pitiful reliance on emotional necessity. Need. Want. Must. Have?

Detachment forces itself to engender artificial facades. Wait, isn't that redundant. Wait. What?

I don't remember what I was talking about. Remind me?

Looking for hope. Desperately.

Valentine's Day.

Artists wade into the ocean of poetry and painting, assumedly searching for self-connection to those thick brush strokes; or those words scattered on a page. But art, at heart, is a lie. Why not use pop song lyrics?

Eminem wails away, but what really happens when a tornado meets a volcano?

Imagination and the self-pity of late night thought paralyzes sleep; like a clown, I put on a show. Yearning again for that eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.

Wait a minute, this is too deep. Gotta change the station.

Nobody knows it but me. The Tony Rich Project.

Notes from the Underground. Truth.