I am not a metaphor for a summer song. I am no flowering plant, or seed-producing nightmare. This is the summertime, but behind my cloudy eyes I see no sun. This is the year of my life, but through the looking glass I cannot see another one to come. One day, comes the next, and am I suddenly missing out?
I despise being tied down, the same as one despises the death of an icon. We have fallen into a state of collective shock.
My condolences to the family. May he rest in peace.
May his body remain undisturbed, yet let his infamy live on through the hearts around the world.
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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.
Blog Archive
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