Conflicts with night sticks.

Body pillow pimp, low on clientele. There's almost an art to not giving a shit.
The mind is the demon, and the demon paints happy faces on sad clowns.

I took mothafucka out on a date, slit it's wrists and now the blood stains
drip when it paints, and now it's obvious when the demon has made it's mark,
and it's not really you.

... another affair: I remember that one first date who just sat there and didn't say a word to me all night.
She wanted me to fall in love with her, for no reason other than herself.

Peace to Ingmar Bergman.