Whatever It Takes To Make This Home

We brought down an empire that was built of tears, a silence that was strong as however long we listened.

No amount of naked pictures on the internet, freshly mixed nightclub beats or brand new industrial CDs could make up for your mistake. I pretended that I didn't like your hair, green as the deepest sea and black as the nighttime sky. We locked in a stare, your eyes blue as the summer skies, your voice soft as the spring birds and gentle as the showers that follow shortly after. You, and me, wasn't it supposed to be that easy?

But life goes on -- moves forward without the word, without the sound, without the world we built around downtown.

Scene kids, goth kids, rivetheads alike all mean the same thing to me.

Black clothes.

We all need a reality check here. Take me away to someplace real, where the local scene can be considered more than a few kids standing around and pushing each other, and I can't laugh at how rediculous the bands are. Take me to a place where I don't know the guitarist of my favourite local act, or the sun in my hair during a late night show.

I want the rain off my shoulders, the dust off my clouds. I want a space to be mine -- where my friends are actually more than my friends will ever be, and that man on the stage? I won't know his name.

We Dream Cocaine Runs As We Learned Being Born Losers Wasn't Nearly As Fun As Being Whores

I dream of thee, broken souls on Broadway sing; sing for a mirage coasting over the shallow waters of Columbia. We close our mouths to taste the sin, to break the phantom against raw skin. And bruised and beaten to the saints and cry – to the nighttime sky we raved to fly. Away for freedom, for hopes and dreams became all we'd ever wanted in a man.

Welcome to the Americas, the sentimental times where we licked each other's faces and said, "Hey, look at that chick over there with her plastic boobs and plastic face, and plastic smile – she made my day, made my reality, eh?"