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Description
Prozac has become our medicated reality where individuals find the ultimate cost-benefit analysis in the shape of a pill.

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At times, my mind wanders and I find myself back in your arms. Adrift in a floating sea of memories that was once—us. Tranquil, yet deep with a penchant for violent storms. Quite foolish, like me. This is only a lavish metaphor.

To think that thoughts like these could ever exist in the harsh lighting of a television studio filled reality. Dreams and hopes, routinely lay splayed at the feet of cold-discerning accountants.

                Cost benefit analyses,
        Five Forces analyses,
     SWOT analyses.

“Run that through a BCG two by two matrix, and have it on my desk by                        tomorrow.”

No, this is not business. It is love. In an era characterized by disillusioned deceit, how can one protect themselves?

                  Guns are quite barbaric.
Business is for the civilized.

So we become financial accountants in our own lives. Too afraid to ever get hurt, we apply a veil of cold calculation to our irrational feelings.

But I’m not a businessman. I don’t really like capitalism. I guess I lean towards socialism, but not really. I guess, I just like to feel…to…feel.

Prozac has become our medicated reality where individuals find the ultimate cost-benefit analysis in the shape of a pill.

But I don’t like medicine. I mean, I took the red pill, and I’m like Alice tumbling down this fucking rabbit hole. See...no amount of analyses can ever tell me the answer. I guess what I’m saying is…Fuck it…let it all go to hell…fuck your pills, fuck your calculations, your deceit, your games. Fuck your beliefs, fuck everything. Fuck your highly developed defense mechanisms. Just listen, can you hear it? Can you hear it anymore, or did you forget what it sounded like?

Description
Prozac has become our medicated reality where individuals find the ultimate cost-benefit analysis in the shape of a pill.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At times, my mind wanders and I find myself back in your arms. Adrift in a floating sea of memories that was once—us. Tranquil, yet deep with a penchant for violent storms. Quite foolish, like me. This is only a lavish metaphor.

To think that thoughts like these could ever exist in the harsh lighting of a television studio filled reality. Dreams and hopes, routinely lay splayed at the feet of cold-discerning accountants.

                Cost benefit analyses,
        Five Forces analyses,
     SWOT analyses.

“Run that through a BCG two by two matrix, and have it on my desk by                        tomorrow.”

No, this is not business. It is love. In an era characterized by disillusioned deceit, how can one protect themselves?

                  Guns are quite barbaric.
Business is for the civilized.

So we become financial accountants in our own lives. Too afraid to ever get hurt, we apply a veil of cold calculation to our irrational feelings.

But I’m not a businessman. I don’t really like capitalism. I guess I lean towards socialism, but not really. I guess, I just like to feel…to…feel.

Prozac has become our medicated reality where individuals find the ultimate cost-benefit analysis in the shape of a pill.

But I don’t like medicine. I mean, I took the red pill, and I’m like Alice tumbling down this fucking rabbit hole. See...no amount of analyses can ever tell me the answer. I guess what I’m saying is…Fuck it…let it all go to hell…fuck your pills, fuck your calculations, your deceit, your games. Fuck your beliefs, fuck everything. Fuck your highly developed defense mechanisms. Just listen, can you hear it? Can you hear it anymore, or did you forget what it sounded like?