This was birthed from my long paranoia of people reading my journals (I’m missing some). They include loose pages of lyrics, poems, images, lines that I couldn’t find a home for, and embarrassing ramblings of insecurities. Nothing is in any particular order. I just went through my notebooks and picked what probably has been a reoccurring theme through out my life. No other eyes were ever meant to look at these pages. I’m not trying to be pornographic, but before the noose of automation gets any tighter, this is evidence of my faulty vulnerable condition. I want to have faith in humanity again.