Seriously... 

The rage will carry me thru. 

Don't worry. 

The crank will never wear off, til I die violently. 

It's a straight shot til then, more or less, as long as you grant some punctuated equilibrium of amphetamine injections. A few thousand of them in, I dunno, a few months, tops.

Confidence like a brownshirt. Will become a bloodstain, washed away with bleach the next day, another bloody brick in the wall's demolition, just a brick but maybe worth it, maybe the best I can do.

You can mathematize, can go stone crazy with that but you can never take away how freaky and flaky music still is.  Will always be. Making music in between talking shop with some grasping clean freaks. Freaks like him, and me, and the machinist. Pride and joy, and guilt. 

Sometimes it's all I can do. Play. Or the only thing to do. 

Imagine myself surviving somehow, in the unlikely event that I can't be replaced with a robot. I'm not worried about the jews replacing me, I'm more worried about the paypal mafia. But I could be the pussiest patron's pet in the bunker, making music that finally makes sense in this moment, despite months of the best hive mind trying, and access to the entire global supply of stem cells - they can't reproduce the glitch that makes me special. 

This present bliss is me being a beneficiary of my past self's generosity. Pax humana. Manna from my mind and body I gave to myself later. A lovely gift, feeling like life itself, the farcical form it's taken in this N-hole, to groove on some shit I laid down when I could. Come as you are. Now.