They’d rather hate you for the truth than love you for the lies.

There’s so many wack rappers out here, I don’t know where to aim at.

Two wrongs don’t make it right, but it damn sure makes us even.

The first fallen leaves of the season skitter like vermin across the concrete. You wish they could carry away the refuse that's long been accumulating inside you. You imagine anthropomorphic leaves lovingly building piecemeal nests crafted from your sorrow. You wish your pain had a function other than sending you to the gym once a week. You wish you had a purpose.