The temple is crashing around the people who call this home. How fake! Everything that is of matter constructed by men for men to impress women and accommodate fruitless desires burn in fires with the rest of the plastic liars. Watch as they melt into a blob and the blob drips into the core which is raked over the coals every once in a while to keep the fires that burn fake losers alive. There is two streets that have numbers for names and they represent the factions of the mortals that dwell there. They travel up and down the street in hopes of finding something, but what that is nobody really knows, they just know for certain that it can't possibly be found here.

Everyone holds fake moral standings and expresses false moral beliefs in order to either impress others or because of a deep seeded fear inside that their mom and dad is watching them through some kind of camera in the corner of the bar's smoke stained ceiling. Little girls walk the streets at night hoping to seduce some weak man into forbidden desire for their little moments of sinful pleasure which will be forgotten when the man is rotting in prison still five, ten and even twenty years later. What a giant unraveling never ending hypocrisy! It makes me sick to think that there are so many fantasies that go unfulfilled and so many whores that never even love the world because they only love the small things that help them beat the world at its own game. You can download pictures of it for weeks on end if you have a wire leading to the giant sucking of souls network.

These morals - why are they not reflected on the face of the people who are enjoying life, who have money and power, beauty and seduction? Why are the only real enforcers of the morals the people who couldn't go against the grain of them if they sold their very souls to do so? And the people who are able to live in such debauchery will tell you that it is wrong and that people who commit these acts of pleasure should be condemned to a lesser fate. On the other hand, there are those who are burning inside from the pain of not being able to live in total sin. They would, they dream about it. They scoff the normal ways of living and denounce the hypocrites, and yearn to live in sinful ecstasy - the problem is is that they are usually old or fat or ugly, and therefor, they are rejected by the real perpetuators of sin - the beautiful and the wealthy. What a wonderful world we live in. And you want to try to tell me that there is a God and a way to get all your sins erased by asking someone to forgive you?

It's amazing the things you see in the textures of glass and in the imprints on snowflakes when you are in exile. The dreams I have when I am asleep transform into gloomy visions of past adventures mixed with the dreary present daily grind. What I have to do just to make it through a day of perpetual rotting so I can find interest in the small hour of the night to explore my mind. I break the first layer of the dreams down and find that there is no real psychological basis for them. There is no meaning other than the fact that they reflect my exiled life, which has no meaning. Everything I do is in preparation for the future, and that's been the case for about ten years. So I ask: when is the present? The past never seems to want to completely die off. My dreams consist of old friends and childhood memories, the setting usually takes place in my childhood house and woods and neighborhood. The demons are still the same old demons, they never change much, only their scent.

Cranking words out onto the paper used to be so much easier. Indeed, I used to be able to put it altogether in the form of a plot and develop characters. I used to dream of writing stories that people would turn into movies. I would pick the actors and actresses, and I would sleep with them after a long hard day of shooting. I would drink wine with the directors and talk about politics with the producers. What a nice world that would be. But unfortunately, I never wrote a movie, and none of my works will ever become a movie, at least, while I'm still alive. Like any other good writer, my work will get the recognition it deserves after I die. I might write a couple more really good stories, maybe a few more volumes of poetry, and some prose, and then maybe a truck will hit me. Well, it'll have to be some kind of death that gets recognition beyond just the six o clock news. . . but nothing that makes me notorious just for the way I died because that will overshadow the work I have done in creativity.

So to break the writer's block, I will focus on something other than the actual exile, because as of right now, it has become so mundane and monotonous, that there is no real way to put any other kind of spin on it. Focusing on broken dreams really isn't creating nothing new for me either, seeing how that has been the underlying meaning of pretty much everything I've ever written. So let me do something that I think is a little on the extreme side, but it's something that has to be done. In the form of broken dreams, I write letters to home.

TO CORY:

God damn, what a weird twist of events life has dealt us. I remember the day I met you. Man, you were the exact reflection of me, only in the form of someone that was a lot more hungry for the pleasures of life and with a lot more reasons to dwell in the sorrows of life. I guess you've never changed on those fronts. I think about all the different phases we went through in our relationship, and how we just seemed to come apart at the seems that held us together - even though we are still very much the same people in so many respects. I can't believe that the world is so fucked up that two people like us only bring each other down when we try to put our minds together. I think about you every day, and I often wonder what you think about, and if you think about me everyday and what things come to mind when you think of me. I try not to reflect on the past too much, but, fuck, it's hard not to. The days of the Reaper. When we drove around the shits all day and rotted from shit pad to dirt pad. The people who all ridiculed us and had so many things to say about how big of losers we would both turn out to be. The dreams we had . . . Broken. And how and why? I don't care, because there was some crazy twist of fate that tore us from our dreams and there isn't much we can do about it now or even shortly after then. All in all, we accomplished our dream of becoming big time in music - not to everyone else in the fucked up worthless scope of the world, but to ourselves. With each other, we created the exact kind of music that we loved the most - more than any band in the big time that ever was or ever will be. We created it, and we listened to it until it was imbedded in the brain, and it never got old. It still never does, and if I had a copy of it, I would throw it in right now and crank it up because it still kicks ass. Well, I hope like hell you're alive and doing at least what you like to do, whatever that is. We seen the most beautiful things the world has to show people, and we seen the ugliest shit the world could show you. We smelled the finest smelling buds that grow on the planet, and we smelled the most awful stench that could reek up a room. We touched surfaces with the smoothest of silks and we brushed against the grains of the grittiest papers. The underlying theme of our existance is that we pretty much experienced everything there is to experience in life as a unit - me and you, including the deepest love and respect, including the deepest anger and disrespect. Yet, we are still soul mates to this day, and nobody will ever convince me otherwise. I love you - Stay Real, Brando

TO ART:

Well, here we are, a very long time after I first met you, and I don't think either of us has really changed too much. I'm glad to finally see you making a living off of what you love to do, and what you do the best - art. It's hard to believe that you never made it big time in the music front. I would have thought that there couldn't be benevolent forces that could hold you or Steve or Paul or Sim back from achieving that goal. But when I review it, I wonder if that was ever any of you guys' goal. It makes me sick to see all of that talent and creativity to fall to the way side, but there is something good to get out of all of it, and that is the simple fact that you guys are all still in touch with reality. I think that between you and Steve, there has never been anyone that has given me more influence and insight into the world and creativity. I really have to dedicate everything I do in the realm of creativity to you guys, and hope that it's enough. Someday, I might be where I want to be, famous fro the things I can do with creativity. If that day comes, I will owe a great debt to you and Steve. It's hard to write a letter to just one of you at a time, because both of you have done so much for me, as well as help me when I was in times of need. You guys are the truest of friends, and I will never be able to repay you for all of the times I was ready to give up on the world and you showed me ways to make things cool again. Lots of love and many shots go out to you two, always and forever. I will always keep in as much touch as I can with you two because you guys are the essence of my hometown. My hometown heros, if you will. Well, I hope things continue to work out for both of you, and I wish the best - B. Strong

TO STEVE:

Well, it looks like I covered a lot of what I wanted to say directly to you with the letter to Art. I guess I've known you for a few more years than I've known Art, and we kinda have mutual memories about childhood, growing up, the old neighborhood, and shit like that. I remember the first day we met, we were flying Perry Drug Store kites. We hiked in the old woods a couple times, and then you probably remember me as the paperboy for the years when you were in heavy guitar study. I think ahead to the early Evil Green days, when you and the E.G. staff had such passion about the E.G. dream that I felt that passion enough to put myself in a frame of mind that still hasn't faded out - the frame of mind where I don't have any desire to live a "normal" life - that of the every day nine to five joe that has a wife and some kids and a picket fence and all that happy go lucky bullshit that seems to me like a waste of a perfectly good existance. So I press on with the mission, and thank you for the divine intervention that you had in me, even if you never really realize that you had that big of an impact on my ways of thinking and living. Well, you did and I am still living the dream. When you try to live the dream, you see the nightmare for most of the time. You work and work and work to get past that until the dream begins to unfold. I've seen the dream unfold several times in my adult life, never to completely come true, until it seems like I will always be held in contempt, and the dreams will never come true. But I still press on, and part of that is due to the fact that I learned the skill of endurance from you. You might not understand why right away, but when you figure it our, you will smack yourself in the forehead and say, "Shit! Why didn't I see that!" I will always have the deepest respect for you on those tips, and I will always love you. You have been one of the best friends a person could hope to ever have, not to mention, a pretty good game of chess. So in closing, I would like to say that one day, when my dream comes true, I will do everything I can to give back to you what you gave to me over the years. Love ya forever - B.

TO NATHAN:

Man, Nothing can compare to the trials and tribulations we have experienced as friends. I go through life thinking every day about how I fucked up. I know you think about me a lot, and when you do, that's probably forefront on your mind. I can never erase that, even though if someone gave me a chance to, I would, but I would hate to go through life thinking that this is how I must reflect on our relationship - a series of turning the knife in the back, because to me it aint like that. I never wanted to fuck up, and create all the hell that you have to face because of my fuck up. I really wish things could have went differently, and I know that some of the choices I made might have been fucked up in and of themselves. I guess there's no way you'll ever forgive me, and you'll probably always have a desire to somehow fuck me up because of this. So all in all, I guess I can't really reflect on positive things because you'll scorn me even harder. I just want to say that I love you deeply, and that you have always been a big part of me - even when you were in the exact opposite spiritual world as me. There has never been a time in my life where you didn't mean a lot to me, including now. It's half the reason I can't return to Michigan ever, because I couldn't face you, I would rather face death than face you - a person who helped me in the coldest of sold and lonely situations, and trusted me when not even my own mother would trust me. You were there for me like no person on this fucking earth has ever been for me. In fact, I have never seen a case where someone was there for someone else more than you were there for me. I can never repay you. Even if I became a millionaire and gave you half of it, I wouldn't feel any better about how I fucked up. I can't go on anymore with this. Just remember that nobody will ever represent a reflection of myself more than you. I wish things could have worked out a lot different, starting with us being able to grow our friendship more before other people interfered - because together, we could have successfully conquered many fronts that nobody else I know of would have any interest in. I doubt you'll ever read this, but for the sake of writing it, I love you, and I will always be in debt to you no matter how much repaying I do or am ever able to do. Love, Brandon.

TO NATALIE:

I can't believe I am including a section in here for a woman. That is absurd by exile standards, but I have to say a few words of finality, seeing how you pretty much won't admit that you still love me, and I can't seem to kill whatever love I still feel for you. I just have one thing to say to you while I am in this exile state: thanks for not believing in me. That has made me stronger and stronger and stronger until I am going to be so strong that one way or another, I will be a very successful person, and you will look me up or I'll call you years down the road, and you will be the one to kick yourself in the ass, not me. But it won't matter, because I will be hitting a 19 year old. The bottom line is that you are the reason I lost respect for women. I lost it because I see that women won't stand by their man, when trouble arises, you jump to the next motherfucker with cash - even if it's mommy and daddy's flow. How sickening! You wasted all these years with some loser who would never marry you, and for why? Because he lives in the next town over? If you would have stuck with . me, and moved up to Michigan with me, we might have had bad times and good times, (like everything else, there's always bad) but after all was said and done, we would have been happy, and that's the bottom line, isn't it? One day you will realize that you should have met me half way and things would have worked out. Otherwise, you'll be chasing the dragon forever, like me, only I don't chase the dragon called love anymore. I chase the dragon called pleasure. FUCK love. Love aint shit but another expressway to pain, sorrow, and extreme loneliness, not to mention sexual self-abuse. That's all, I love you and I will always love you and I will always think about you when I wake up and when I go to sleep - that's the curse you put on me with your fucking witchcraft. Oh well, if I can't break the curse, I will exploit it. I will continue to fuck as many young sweet innocent things as I can until I die. Thanks for the short period of the best time of my life, and the extended period of the worst. Love, Brandon

Well, I could go on writing these letters for days, but the real important ones are out of the way now, and that's really what I needed to beat down some of this writer's block/insomnia. I really hope any outsider who don't know me enjoyed reading intimate details of my personal life. There's more to come, so stick around. Docile as I might be in the small hours of the everlasting eve, I am still a writer, and my emotions will still continue to spill out onto the paper like oil drips from your car onto the pavement. Keep the dreams alive, I shall be leaving this exile in a matter of measurable time. I will talk about that as it develops more. In the mean time - KILL YOURSELF!!!!!