LOOPDIGGERS SUNDAY ROULETTE N°147

Much like the pain experienced when you finally give into that desperately needed sleep, or the extreme nausea when you force feed your self to allay the end of the world, cigarettes hurt me as they help me. They bring about the chemical knowledge that my unfettered schizophrenia will soon ebb, giving way to a somewhat more reasonable self. But, do I deserve such a reprieve? Can my lungs hack the pain? Have I traded any of my soul against it? I usually battle for a good while before giving in, snatching at the pack, invariable breaking the first one, or lighting the filter. But, now with slightly blurred vision, I can resume the regularly scheduled mental battery I subject myself to. I’ve always believed that when it got too bad, I would end the game, but with this level of hallucination, I wonder, would I scare my self out of it, and just lay, arched in pain, and scream until I stroke? Sometimes I long to be one of those clumsy, brutish, twelve-pack boys - self confident to a flaw, beating thier way through life with nary a care. Men completely unaware that just within reach is another world, one of over education, over analyzation, deep contemplation and well, debilitating panic. But a meathead I’m not. No, when I abuse the people around me it's cleverly disguised in a cloud of self righteous indignation, as if those other than myself are just too stupid to see why I’m right. Such attacks are engineered on the fly, with veteran accuracy, impenetrable logic, and lies manufactured with a certainty that only a mad man could conjure - because mad, I’ve come to realize, is what I am. stark, raving, mad. But, with what elegance I display my facade. A gleaming image of a genius, kept back by the injustices of the world, the idiocy of my comrades and the sole knowledge of the perfect way. Control freak? Ego maniac? Perhaps, but with out a doubt, I’m always right. Yes, one more cigarette and I’ll be on top of the world again, razor sharp senses dulled to a slight grin, and eventually, if I make it there, a few beers might knock me out. But first I’ll have to crawl around on my hands and knees looking for the burning toast smell, and what is that fucking sound, anyway?

UNGLUED CONFESSIONS (LOOPDIGGERS SUNDAY ROULETTE N°147)

LoopDiggers Sunday Roulette N°165 - I Think The Ether Spilled.
Another messed up production by @mreguest & @user-351808401

I Think The Ether Spilled. (LDSR 165)

LoopDiggers Sunday Roulette N°165 Outro

LoopDiggers Sunday Roulette N°165 - Intro feat:
@funzo-1
@benzomightybeats
@mreguest
DM @LoopDiggersRecords to get involved.

LoopDIggers Sunday Roulette N°165 Intro - Robots Don't Dream

ZAMFIR'S ZEPHYR (LDSR 166)

LoopDiggers Sunday Roulette N°166 Intermission
@flossy1976 on the beat
@funzo-1 on the environmentals
@mreguest on the vox

LDSR 166 INTERMISSION

LoopDiggers Sunday Roulette N°170 - DOSED RIDERS IN THE SKY

Hello? Hello? Are you there? No, you never are. It's just me, talking into this void, like someone’s listening. But no one ever is. Hello? I can hear the dial tone, but it-it’s fake, that buzzing keeps me tethered to something that’s not even there. Maybe it’s them. No, it is them. The horses. Hello? Is this line still open?

They ride us. I see it now. It’s clearer every day. We think we’ve tamed them, strapped the saddles tight, but the joke’s been on us the whole time. We’re the ones saddled. We’re the ones bridled, reins pulling us here, there, everywhere. We call it freedom. Isn’t that funny? Isn’t that hilarious? Hello?! Oh, of course, you’re not there, no one is. But, I keep picking up the phone like maybe, just maybe, someone will understand.

Think about it. We’re the ones walking around, believing we’ve mastered them, thinking we’ve got the reins in our hands, but have you ever really stopped to wonder? Wonder who’s in control? We sit there on their backs, but who’s really moving who? They carry us, sure, but where are they taking us? Where have they always been taking us?

Hello? Why won’t someone answer the goddamn phone?! Y'know, they won’t because they don’t want to hear it. No one wants to hear the truth about the horses. It’s not the riding, not the galloping across fields, no. It’s much deeper - they’re inside us. They’ve always been inside us. When we think we’re giving the orders, whispering “giddy-up,” we’re just saying what they want us - Hello? Hello?

It’s in their eyes. Have you ever really looked into a horse’s eyes? They don’t blink the same way we do, you know. They blink like they know something, like they’re hiding something. Horses see everything. They see through us, beyond us. They know where we’re going before we do, and they’re taking us there. The hoof beats echo, but it’s - Hello? Hello? Is anybody there? Hello?

DOSED RIDERS IN THE SKY

BLISTERS

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New tracks tagged #JUST PLAIN MENTAL