My MP3 Player Loves the Wu

"Wu-Tang again?" I benumbingly ask my musical friend, my brain awash in streams of visceral ultra-violence.
"Again and again!" it responds, the skeletal loneliness of Syl Johnson ricocheting off my hollow bones.
Yet I find it quite easy to relent to these circumstances. Maybe it's my nihilistic impulses, a fetishisation of escape, or my inabiliy, despite my best efforts, to recover the true ends of an artist's intent. Either way, my fingers form outlines of vengence and my lips curl in masculine braggadocio, my limbs colluding to express a personal rebirth. It becomes ever more apparent that my days are a ruse. And every intellectual pursuit a guise to mask my tendancy towards to the senseless. A truth only exposed by the Wu. For Rza and I share a love of Machiavelli's Wild West. And thus the sociopath is born.