Write drunk, edit sober. Why do I live life like that Duchamp work of art? Always on its side.
You Saturday looks saccharine, just sack it in. Let's do something together. You look like you never bought a scratch card.
We tell ourselves these stories to make sense of situations, and although our minds are glorious, we're slaves to our perception. There's no light at the end of our tunnel vision unless we can create some. Let's be brave in our rejection, become everything they hate because we write drunk and edit sober.
Let's fly into this country, man, and feel a little bolder. We can build ourselves with pride, refine our minds, mate, you're my brother and we're running from the road again, both proudly lost together. And that outline of yourself, my friend, you've got the patience and the paint. These stories that we tell ourselves, you can control, construct them. Write them in silence, then stand up and scream them. The lights in your eyes shine as you give them meaning. Reclaim your voice from that flat in Norwich. Look after your weekends. And take yourself down to the woods again, because one day you won't have to pretend.
I'm drunk, and Ed is sober. Why do I live life like that Damien Hirst piece? Cut up.