I'm on the sidewalk; I'm bleeding out my lungs. The trees, they taste like honey and vinegar and French fries, the lice, they stomp and crawl and take over the earth. I feel them on my skin, hey; can you feel me on your skin too? I ask myself, hey, what am I doing here? I try to move, but something hurts so I stop. I try to talk, to yell, to tell you something above the surface of the ocean, but something else hurts and I take a deep breath of water -- lungful of blood.
I'm starting to miss the consistency that was the latency, miss the scene aesthetic, the magic and the monkeys. I told him to take me home; I didn't want to be alone. I couldn't stand, nonetheless fall. To prop myself up, it hurt, something hurt, yeah.
I closed my eyes, and felt my heartbeat. I felt the blood -- the blood had always been there, but not external. Never external. Here I am; tonight I'm inside out.
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There is a dream, somewhere lost within the din of cynics and second-page lovers frolicking in the fields of overgrown weeds. There is an idea with that dream, and inspirations that shall overcome all – and one day, produce more imagination than ever believed from anybody who ever looked this way.
Waking Disaster; Sleeping Saint
- The Flaming Toaster
- Canada
- I am but a face in the crowd, a word on a page, a book on a shelf. I haven't got much to say, but I'll keep talking myself in circles anyway. One day, my words will cease -- that day, so will I.
Beyond This Exit Point
Follow Me Home Tonight