released August 21, 2015

Recorded at Aubitt Studios

I feel a sudden compulsion to be clean.
A year in passing and yet you’re still here, with or around me, you've become a part of me. Everyone I know and my image presented to them now has the stain of your palm imprinted onto mine. A working man with the urges like the rest of them like me doesn't normally expect a fan. Not one like this. Not this personal. In a situation like this you’d think I’d talk to you more. It’s a good thing you’re here.

With a door between us, it gives me an overwhelming sense of control. I can at least try to put this to rest; but you know me. I won’t turn my back when an opportunity presents itself. Especially after all we've been through. Come inside and I’ll be more personable than you know me.
Like any of this is real. It never was. I bent my religion for me in the face of who I serve. I'm selfish so I'm always satisfied. Your obsession is laughable. It demands to be documented. It’s about time you were purged from me in place of a temporary growth
I feel the compulsion to be clean. The hiss and rise of the steam isn't quite as comforting as I hoped. It’s unexpected yet awfully familiar. It demands documentation. I'm
glad you’re here.

I'm having trouble reflecting on my past. My selective and revisionary treatment of my history isn't to blame. The guilt should be laid on anything and everything I deem a threat to my personal being. I'm trapped in a one-sided blood feud.
Evidence suggests congenital disorder but I can confirm myself to be the downward spiralling effect of emotional trauma. Having been mute for 6 years during my youth, you could argue my opinions were coloured by my parents attitudes rather than my own opinions. They have helped in amassing a household room of nostalgia paraphernalia. They gave me the gift of eternal youth. A protected existence. How could I slander their name?
Confinement didn't choose me - Conformity simply rejected me. High school was a forced social environment yet I poured my heart, soul and hard work into the experience. Yet I was denied any sort of reward for my actions. I resent the dream smashing bastards responsible.

All I ever wanted was to be loved. I believe in being fated to another, I just never realised each fated sweetheart had the capability of rejection. Perhaps I am fated to solitude.
Confinement led to the Internet, the Internet led to exposure, exposure led to documentation, documentation led to erasable embarrassment. I'm an autistic phenomenon.

Now, as I watch my foolish mistakes burn my house down I begin to reflect: I have never experienced true love, I have never been able to maintain anyone's friendship, my parents are on the brink of death and I think I'm a transvestite
Listen to me sister. We shared a womb, we share appearance . Who's to say I'm not entitled to what's yours. Our own reflection can't tell us apart.

I remember the look of adolescent lust in our eyes. As you spread your biological urge, you let spill the interests of each of your one-minute lovers personalities as you saw them. It was enough to take your role.What's yours is mine
As our hair thinned, you found yourself domesticated with someone we once called ours. You left me and took what was ours. What now grows in your womb isn't where it belongs. It's ours. Give me back our smile.
I wish I could see how other people saw the incident. It's in my instinct, everything around me has taught me to look and stare. That's accepted. That's human.

...It's hard to explain. I do what I'm told. It's a widely accepted obsession. I should know; all my friends have it.
I'm comfortable with it. I thought I was in control of it. The crash was different. It was like an unexpected seizure whilst driving. The women were everything I've been told about. My mouth was overflowing, my feet tightened themselves to the ground. I was saddened as they quickly grew further away from me. The collision felt short. Looking up from the wheel, I stared at a tear drenched family in their back yard.

It's strange how the on-look from others hasn't affected me since. Even stranger is how I don't exactly remember the faces of the women. Though I clearly remember the family; how disgusted they made me feel
I recently found this website where people could vent their sufferings of abuse. All of the vacant responses from users providing disingenuous solace seemed strange. I don't know if this was jealously or pity and my ambivalent is making me concerned. Forgive me if my first instinct was to laugh.

There's a sense of trust people put into faces they see daily. Physical or not, our minds weave a personality for these faces. A personality that fits them rather than the face itself. I've seen faces of my own. They told me mental illness is natural. I struggle to believe them as much as I struggle to pity them.

One more drink. The clamour of those in torment has to be the sound most pleasing to the ear. Drinking helps the ache in my fists at the close. God frowns but does nothing. On second thought maybe it's him bludgeoning my bladder. Well, it's making good for reputation.

Honestly, I suppose I'm remorseful. I'd take the place of his dear boy if it made him feel better. I never asked for those actions on my behalf. How dare he take away my responsibilities. I resent our father for pampering us and letting me enjoy it.

He lacks revolutionary spirit. I pity those without it; I ***ing hate pity.
My chest is beginning to hurt. I'm starting to think this is a form of suicide. I'm no coward. I'll have someone else do it. Maybe the Lord, he's looked down on me since my first love. I'm sure he'd relish in the yield.
You can't let anyone know. You'll forget and I'll satisfy my conscience.

My authority is present. The doors closed, the lights are off and the curtains are drawn. However I couldn't account for time; it's early in the morning. The sun is shinning past the curtains and lighting the room in a sickly muted green. I know there's no one but me and you home but I can't help but worry someone is watching over me. As long as you keep quiet I'll be able to keep this to myself.

You're not what you will become. You're innocent, glowing, careless and weightless. You're like mother before time wore her down. Though your qualities may dissipate as I look over you. My cherished memories and work desk photographs come to the forefront of my mind, to avert my eyes but allow me to remain in the moment. You grant me depraved euphoria.

I often wonder as our time together has past. If anyone were to know - would I be treated as the rest? This is what I need. They wouldn't understand. They would cling to loss. They can't sympathise let alone acknowledge my own. What they would lose is something to remember, something tangible. What I have lost my own mentality - I cannot mourn as it was never there. Now I do what I must to cope.
There will be others. Once the presence of someone becomes domestic for too long, my taste sours. I'll helplessly invade others.

No matter what is said. Don't forget me. Vilify my actions but recognise them in yourself and learn.