Not for the first time my previous post is scaring the shit out of me. Who the hell is Tom? How could I write this and not remember anything. Luckily, I snapped out of it before anything tragic happened. In my bag I found I large homemade bomb that I had no recollection building or anything related for that matter. I feel like every time I go to sleep my other half rises slowly from my mind and chaos ensues. I'm not a murderer, but he is. I'm not a terrorist, but he is. I'm Peter and he is someone else. A product of what this world has done to me. Maybe all the fast food and processed foods I have been eating since I was a little boy have accumulated toxic trash somewhere in my head leaving me with a prettt fucked up tool shed. Liverpool, you're my last hope. I travel through France heading toward the train that will zip me over to London where I will be ever closer to my beloved. One last time at Anfield? Is that to much to ask for? One more time to soak in the screams of the kop. I'm off .