The Plastick Funhause is a playground for the lost, a bosom to the bottle-fed repressed. Let loose a sigh and let it cradle your mind. Suckle the wholesome goodness of free machine-brewed nescafe.

Think of rats and hole-punchers and other pretty things. Your body is a shell, your mind is infinite. Crucify your soul on a sheet of A4-sized paper with a stapler. Your soul is dirty, muddy and ugly next to its wholesome chlorine-bleached goodness.

Your mother didn't love you enough, your dad was a drunk. Fuck you. His mother loved him too much, his dad was too sober. You can let it all go, just join the Plastick Funhause.

Take a deep breath, its the last you'll ever take. Everyone's a walking stereotype, so pick yours. Phonies. All phonies. We can all run away, we can be free.

The faceless mass does not exist. Do not refer to them as 'them', because you are part of it. We are the faceless mass. Embrace our anonyimity, love your abnormity. Everyone's difference is everyone's common denominator.

You've judged what I wrote and now you're judging me. You came to read what I wrote, so remember that your judgement on me reflects on you too. I can judge you too even if I don' t know you. You're probably 'nice' and scared shitless of being alone. Its okay, so am I. Sometimes, at least. You probably love Keane, and secretly you like -insert pop band here-. Its okay, I like Robbie Williams, but no I don't like Keane. You probably fear death more than you love life. And thats why I'm glad I'm not you.

lehn.