We soak—the solvent yet quickens our rot
Fresh dope strikes the vein in suburbia
Chemic’ly warm—to forget your life’s lot
Softest venom begets monomania
My rest in the chamber so soon expires
Can’t target my rage, the doctor, he’ll do
So soon, I’ll speak out—rapidly fired
I won’t choose my end, so your end chose you
These pills quickly put lives to ends so red
To feel alive, their heartbeats slow to nil
Don’t treat the disease, they just treat your head
Your heart shall race for mine before you’re still
The dose you served can end all pain for hours
The dose I serve yet far exceeds its power
A typical example of the Last Generation, Letters spends his procrastinatory hours on Internet shitholes like 8chan and Twitter. Spurred to write at random intervals by a dangerous mix of caffeine, existential crisis, and hypomania, he occasionally—and by no merit of his own—produces something which passes as literature.
