it's that minor chord that makes me smile. it rises like a falcon, and drops like an expectation. the radiant shovel, excavating everything that the beat cannot deliver. it's ok though, because the horizon is a friendly portrait of distant promise. the closer we get, the more invisible we become. but, the more distance we gain, the more visible we wish it to not be instead. such a road gives us no pause within the auspice of risk. the absolutely incredulous aftermath of what we become. the next catastrophe following the fade-out. mighty us and meager mustered egos distributed among the flock. take over this bawdy nerve in a clinch. don't quote the fear, because the fear itself will give bad directions. the desert on one side, and a bloody nose on the other side of the highway. clowns that we are; bleeding into the wind like streaming red banners of unknown velocity. thousands of ways to get there, but only a single fixed point upon which to finally rest. an aerie slung steadfast in the exact wrong position. don't offer me that fucking empty heart icon, as if it's my duty to fill it. don't spend your goodwill like that. such commodities are better implemented elsewhere, always.
Our advice to you, young journeyman:
Traverse the next exit west, and never turn left unless the alternative is just so fucked-up that not doing so means treading into certain territories which allow zero retrograde tactics of thwarting their insidious plans of nullifying any blue-book edition of exception. some adventures fucking don't require an unknown morpheme.
Our advice to you, young journeyman:
Traverse the next exit west, and never turn left unless the alternative is just so fucked-up that not doing so means treading into certain territories which allow zero retrograde tactics of thwarting their insidious plans of nullifying any blue-book edition of exception. some adventures fucking don't require an unknown morpheme.
