Hey Suu, I think they've been stealing from me.

[LMNO]

They're trying to steal my identity, Suu.  Every day, these tiny men dressed in biohazard suits break into my bedroom and grab me by the neck.  They throw me against the wall and blast my skin with icy water from long, rubber hoses.  They scrape my skin with tiny knives, then stuff me in a neoprene bag, and throw me in the truck with the rest of them.

And I find myself strapped to a chair, somehow nattily dressed in a new Gap shirt and something off the rack from Men's Wearhouse.  Then they jab a needle into my neck, and inject coffee straight into my brain, one hand looped through my tie like a horse's halter rope.  Satisfied that the chemicals have kicked in, they turn on the various glowing machines, and drop the first stack of pages into my tray.  Numb and jittery, I reach for the top sheet.

The day crawls by, but at some point, an alarm sounds and the straps automatically loosen.  Joints creaking, I stumble out into the rain, and make my way back home through the fading light of the day.  Cold, tired, wet, I find the key to my apartment, and lurch over to the couch.  I look at the clock embedded in the wall.  "Ok," I tell myself, "I've got twelve hours before they come for me again."  Plenty of hours for "me time" – the whole reason I got into this game in the first place.

I'm pretty tired though, so I'll probably need about six or seven hours to sleep.  Still, I've got six hours—Damn, I'm hungry.  Ok, let's just heat something up on the stove.  I look at the clock again:  Five and a half.  I go to the couch again, and without thinking, my hand drifts over to the remote control.  Might as well watch something while I'm eating.  Click.  Click.  Click.

I swing my head towards the clock. The numbers are fuzzy, but they tell me it's past midnight.  I look down in my hand, and I see a glass empty but for some half-melted cubes.  The smell of whiskey drifts up to my nose.  How the hell did I—oh yeah.  I better get to bed, get some sleep.  It was the weirdest thing, Suu, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I was heading off to the bedroom.  I wasn't sure who it was at first; there was this lack of definition in the face, a sort of anonymous, haunted look.  It took me a minute to remember what it was that brought me here.

Well, I guess I better go.  I can feel the new dawn creeping up on me, and there's so much to do at the office tomorrow.

[Suu]

The game is a dangerous new addiction, so I hear.

The game is a way for humans to feel needed, wanted, to fit in, if you will.

The game dictates what we wear, how we act, how we eat, and how we interact.

The game drives us to the brink. It makes us, breaks us, shapes us, and eventually destroys us. Bread and circuses have become credit cards and paychecks. We are entertained by our need and struggle to survive.

The game is an illusion.

They haven't stole your identity as much as you allowed them to force one upon you, LMNO. They are a misconception of a drive we have to give ourselves on a daily basis.

They don't exist; only you.

The object of a game is to win.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

WHOA

[Dr. Paes]

Yeah, the "me time". That's what it's all about, isn't it LMNO?
It seemed like such a small sacrifice, when that faceless suit slid the forms to me over that long, walnut desk...
I can't remember what he looked like, but that desk. I wanted one just like it, and he teased me with the possibility.
"You've got a lot of potential, kid." and I think he grinned here... but I can't remember his face. Only his suit, and his fancy desk.
"One day it might be you sitting here, where I am."

And it was *my choice* wasn't it? It must have been a good deal for me.
Because I can remember putting my name on that form.

All he wanted was a few hours of my time each day... and fuck, I had nothing but time.
It wasn't so much to sacrifice. If I gave just a few hours away, I could do anything with the time I had left.
I could do anything.

And those men in the bio-hazard suits. They were so gentle to begin with. Maybe just because I was "the new guy".
Or maybe they just feel rougher now, because my skin hasn't really healed from the countless mornings before this one that they turned those hoses on me.
Or maybe that's just the dream I'm holding on to, clinging to desperately as they pull me from my bed (I'm sure I only just lay down to sleep.)

How did I get here, LMNO?
I ask myself every day, while I'm sitting in that truck.
I got into this thing as a means to an end.
I was a musician... and I put my name on that piece of paper because for a few hours a day I could afford to spend the rest doing what I loved.
I was going to be a writer... but while I looked for my inspiration, I needed something just to keep me going.
For only a few hours a day.
And I was in control...

Then why do I spend most evenings staring into a glass of hard liquor (which I can only afford because of the sacrifices I've made) like I'm looking down the barrel of a gun. And when did I stop defining myself with the things I was passionate about, and *become* my occupation?

And why do I spent my "time to myself" the same way you spend yours?
Because I never really get a chance to write anymore.
Because I don't really have the time to play the guitar.

And even if I had the time, I don't have anything to write songs about... and I really should spend my 'me time' catching up with all the work I have to do, if I ever want a nice suit and a fancy desk.

[LMNO]

They've taken a belt sander to my soul, Suu.  They've planed it down so they can build a new shopping mall in my heart.

My brain has been strip-mined.  They destroyed it from the top down, and then sifted through the rubble, sieving it through corrosive acid, looking for gold.  The runoff has poisoned my blood.