sometimes i get this urge to just sit down and write this screenplay about this melancholy filled boy who sits in a room with umpteen inspirational posters that read busy hands dont hold razors in umpteen different ways that were put up by his own hands that he looks at every day to remind himself that the knives he holds to remind himself hes alive might not be the answer but every once in a while i remember that this whole thing is bullshit and i take mightier swords to posters till they read scared hands don’t hold razors and the last thing he told himself hed be is scared and he wishes someone would just tell himself in a not inspi but rational manner thatd convince why he has to be happy why he absolutely has to be alive without alluding to all the overscreenplayed things hed miss like the miss kiss bliss because he abhors the dull routines of existence but do he does and then i remember bullshit like this doesnt sell but the boys in the room wondering if hes the only one with these posters these cold grey sharp truths these bullshit thoughts about this bullshit place cognizant of it all but most times i keep myself busy