Speed.

You want some facts? You want less creative imaginary bullshit?
Fine, here are the facts:

The fact that I'm standing here in a dirty room with my hair on end and my body on pause.
The fact that nothing's ever worth a good trip, that nothing ever matters more than getting fucked up and pretending you're happy with all the fucked up chemicals making you somebody else. Somebody better.
It's the fact that I can't discern whatever is going wrong within a seemingly untouched, perfect universe in which I seem to be evolving. Nothing feels right lately. I want more, but it seems there's nothing more to desire. Lust for nothing, some might say. Having lust for nothing turns you into the faceless robots you see working in offices and buying starbucks coffee during rush hour, wearing fucking Lacoste t-shirts and shiny Ferragamo shoes. You think they're rich? They're fucking poor. I'm rich. I'm king of my world. That is all that matters now. So I'm standing in this kerosene-drenched room thinking one last frenetic thought about the meaning of creation. But I find no meaning.
Because meaning doesn't matter.

The fact that I'm sitting here in this warm room, listening to the second solo of Live Forever and wondering whether my life is still worth living since I will never be able to equal the musical genius I desire.
It's the fact that I'm really nothing at all compared to what matters.
It's the fact that I will never, in any way, make some sort of change.
It's the fact that the entertainment I have is fruitless, my friends, family and girlfiend have all been distributed to the masses for some sort of internal survival within this vast, infected sanctuary. No wait, not sanctuary. Sanitarium is more of an appropriate word to describe the face of the world.
It's the fact that the screaming coming from the room next door doesn't seem to affect my ill senses. It just doesn't matter. Nothing seems to matter but the firing neurons in my rotting spirit. Matter is nothing.
Matter has no meaning.

The fact that I'm lying here under the bitter skies of wrath that wrap around our huge cage like a whirlwind.
It's the fact that I won't live forever, like the words etched into this virtual page. This virtual page, protected by the smokescreen that is the internet, that will shed me of any possible guilt. It's the fact that my brain does not feel like a limp biscuit at this very moment. I'm aware of all the pain.
It's the fact that optimism doesn't exist. Optimism is but a diversion, driving all of us away from a fate too dark for anyone to take into serious consideration. But fate doesn't matter. It's this moment that matters. Thus consideration does not matter. There is no sense in some people's reasoning.
But reason doesn't matter. Sense doesn't matter.

The fact that the huge majority of people see the world like it is and how it could be. They just don't see the giant, gaping chasm inbetween.
It's the fact that change is irrelevant, because some fucking moron will always make it as worse as it was, or even worse than that. It's called regression, you fucks. Nothing beats regression. Even faith doesn't beat regression. It's that chilly sensation in your spine that drags you back to the filth you were drowning in before you reached a semblance of balance.
It's the fact that I miss the blend of colours she left in my black and white field. Someone uttered me that phrase once. Or maybe said it, or shouted it, or sung it.
The fact is, that black and white does not exist and does not matter.
All that exists are the uncountable shades of grey. It is the only thing that doesn't matter to us, but it fucking does.
It's about the only thing that does.

Nothing else matters. Nothing. Everything else is an illusion. Everything. Napkins, mugs, metronomes, scrap paper, encyclopedias, bubble gum packets, tissues, guitars, DVDs, bongs, books, the Bible, hammers, cushions, trees, motorways, huge televisions, breaking news radio transmissions, friday night entertainment, intoxicating saturday entertainment, sunday bloody sunday rituals, cults, omens, paintings, churches, synagogues, obelisques, canals, rivers, bridges, sugar kane, green grass, cigarettes, sand, high tides, low tides, lighthouses, metro stations, strip clubs, pet dogs, overgrown factories, abandoned mental asylums, teddy bears, nuclear warfare, ball-point pens, tanks, perfume, flamethrowers, video games, mass murders, home-made posters, pantomimes, energy drinks, batteries, vintage Gibson SG replicas, Tipp-Ex, coupons for a free bike tire, spare buttons for a suit, empty filers, pianos, fireplaces, city lights, water pumps, kid's spontaneous laughter, adult's courtesy laughter, formal meetings, elephants, chocolate, binoculars, hair straighteners, tinned chili con carne, limited edition copies of Pink Floyd's "The Wall", dystopia, potery, southern gas stations, goats, cement-mixers, work contracts, school diplomas, family, friends, lovers, hobbies, and even the finest and most precise of pleasures.
It is evident that once the knowledge in question is acquired. It is hard to find a sense of purpose. But purpose is meaningless. Purpose does not matter.
Purposelessness is purpose.

There comes a time when need takes over reason. You want to be on the borderline, safe but not so safe, until the need for risk takes over and swallows you whole. You don't need facts.

Fuck the facts, meaning and whatever seems to matter to all of you.
The fact is that facts are meaningless.
The gaping chasm is everywhere.