2003

In the end what's left won't be your feathered hair or your fake breasts or your fast food or your slow death. All the rallies and all the marches, all the fireworks and all the garbage, the politics of hate and your so-called friends. And I'll stop now if you know how this ends. Last chance to dance and then slip away. No love, just sex, the American way. We're going down now, we're already dead.