#mcrinspired

This is not a podcast. This is not song. This is not a poem, but I might be wrong.

Look alive, nighttime, I am the Pi in the Sky. As irrational and practical as 3.14159. I am your radio pirate DJ, And these are my own Danger Days.

This is not a debut but an outroduction. I am the Reliant, the Pilot, the Death Defying Artist in Hardship. This is my denouement. This is my doom.

Fasten your beatles, you diaphanous seatbelts, as we begin the journal to the exotic consciousness. There will be complimentary fuel for thought served, as well as in-flight Armageddon.

Do not doubt me, exquisite centipedes, or else you will guarantee, or worse yet, insure suture-powers to the Devil. There is an observation of turbulence in currency, standing since before the conception of this moodicide, I mean trek, to the ultimate seizure of sunlight and life. This is regular and to be expected.

This vehicle is the product and emulation of other pilots and the physical plane, which is invincible, if not incomprehensible. Thought its material is more gangly than graceful, as long as I’m behind the weird, the exterior is ineffective. I’m an exceptionable exterminator, especially at the crashing sequence.

We must hurry. Phrases are sometimes not states but actions. Time is ordinance and my fate will not be late. What a poor favor you night crawlers acquiesce to me. My exit from Saxophone Celebrity wasn’t easy. It’s not like I can fight—I have two left fists. But wits don’t lie—even an orange wasp tells the time right twice a day.

We’re going to have to skip the math puns and segue immediately to the recital of the weather.

“I can never go back. I have insulted my love. I have dishonored my parents. They are my boarded past.

My name is the repulsive scavenger eating the limbs of late, loved letters. Once again, society has proven that being myself is the most dangerous thing I could do.

It is condemnation.

I’ve been condemned for my character. I’ve been condemned for existing. The sandstorm does not mitigate. I’m suffocated, abraded, ostracized. Nothing can change. Nothing can help. Nothing can fix me.”

So I hope you brought your raingear! Death is following me, following your scent. Oh, what a poor favor you bring me. Our flight of fancy is not the stretch of anything, merely the exercise of our futility, and scarabs have shown, exercise is a beneficial practice.