I don’t know about you guys, but every year one gets closer to death it seems as if the EGO, kind of just butters away and the true self prevails. All those whacky ideas, those power young moves, just vanish out to thin air. The grind, the work, the fucken life bull shit wears you down. You either wake up or get bothered by the sounds of the engine going off in the back ground. You play some jams, you drift off and fly into the creation of belief… and abruptly you come back to the mediocre of what life has become. It’s not even about politics, it’s about what you’re willing to let slide… the cunning FUCKEN truth about acceptance.
But a dream, just a slice of that beautiful sleep pie means a lot… you drift, you sleep, hoping to never wake up.
You better put them pajamas back on because it’s gonna be a hell of a weekend.
I don’t know about you guys, but every year closer to death, the EGO melts.
Those wild ideas, those power moves of youth—they rot and vanish.
Life—the grind, the work, the endless bullshit—it claws at you until nothing is left but numb.
You wake up… or don’t.
The engine hums somewhere behind you, constant, indifferent.
You play some music, drift, and for a flicker, you touch belief.
A brief reprieve.
Then—you’re yanked back.
Back to the gray, mediocre rhythm of a life that’s already hollow.
It’s not politics.
It’s the things you swallow, the compromises you bleed without notice.
The cunning truth of acceptance: it creeps in like poison, silent, inevitable.
Dreams—they’re a sliver of something real.
A slice of sleep, a taste of escape.
You drift, you float…
hoping, maybe praying, you don’t wake up.
Put your pajamas back on.
The weekend is coming, and it’s going to be ugly.
loopy loops… stay ahead of the curve
Sinister †Publications 
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