I'm lying because there's nothing better to do; taste the sin of broken skin and wretched bone to pavement screams. Shredded clothing creates a void in which we all must collide, collapse, combine and create combustion.
It was a communist dream to corrupt the coronary code in concise creativity caked with criticism. The alliteration allegory is back with a breaking baffle of busted bodies; born to the king of Thames and those who inhabit it. What were we to worry, but wonder that the wise would win our wages of war and waste?
We revel in the idea that one night, we shall be free. Revel, and loath in the light that calls itself satisfactory; safe... something like that. Don't lie, they said. We promise we'll make you out to be a rock star, a shock star, a break up and a porn star.
But tonight, well, it's better to tell a lie of nothing, than to build a life on lies themselves.
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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