+-+------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|S|-------[The Holy Bible © 1997-1998 Self-Induced Negativity]-------------| 
+-+-------------------------[Depression Is Hell]---------------------------+ 
|I|--------------------------[By: The Messiah]-----------------------------|
+-+----------------------[Released:  July 10, 1998]------------------------+
|N|-----------------------[http://www.sinnerz.com]-------------------------|
+-+------------------------------------------------------------------------+


You can't think of a memory that doesn't hurt. You walk along the street at 
night, head filled with profound and dark thoughts, and you know that 
regardless of how beautiful this internal poetry is, and how neat this world 
is, it doesn't mean shit because no one's there to watch it with you. When 
you walk, you keep hoping that someone you know will stop and say "Hey, 
what's the matter," and you can tell them, but no one does. The cars whiz by 
like they always do, oblivious to the tortured pedestrian only feet away from 
them. As you walk along the street, you hold conversations with people in 
your head  - witty things to say to the cops if they stop you (they never do), 
phone calls to ex-girlfriends, ex-friends, old friends. "Hey there, I know 
it's been a while, but I just thought I'd call you..." You'll never call 
them, shying away from the potential dissapointment and embarassment. You 
walk along, building fantasies of some girl you fancy, but you're beyond the 
sex now, you're picturing you bumping into her, her looking at you with 
compassion in her eyes and saying "What's wrong?" What's wrong. The magic 
question that no one seems to ask. People obviously know *something* is wrong 
- they shy away from you at the supermarket, they smile nervously when you 
bring your gaze up from the floor (its usual resting place) and set it on 
their faces. But no one can bother themselves with you. Your friends, if you 
could call them those, come and go, their lives as manufactured and brittle 
as polymer. For some reason people digust you now, and you can't stand being 
around them. You get claustrophobic in your own house, which is why you're 
walking. As you walk, tears trickle down your cheeks. A piece of music grips 
your soul, embodies your dispair, and you walk along, gently humming, tears 
staining the asphault. You know that, no matter how beautiful the sunrise, 
no matter how profound the thought, no matter how trancendental the 
experience, it's not worth anything without someone to see it, hear it, and 
experience it with you. Depression is hell.