Very infective weather came here today. With all that silence and gore.
What about the shame? Well, it’s got an ability to kill us.
What about the shade? It’s got the strength to get us back.
What was she wearing under the moonlight?
Was it your star that worn out her thirst?
For there is no might upon her face tonight.
And there is no need to seek for the race of light.
But every sail on her offshore sky has a silver lining…
The most silky and sensitive skin ever written by man was cancelled and torn apart from your brain by society for being nasty.
One December night, one road through hell.
What if what runs your flesh is not what should be called your blood? It makes me sick. A fuel made for stars? A flame? Fever? Some sort of an organic air? Even if the light is not so common – you see.
I will erase my skin, as well as my inner self.
Too proud to let myself be stolen from this world for that long. Such a shame.
Damn. Did that hurt? No, passed as time sheds – for once in a daylight there’s someone who win(d)s and leaves for ever.
Jesus what. Four spooky glances at the past. Forty eight entities of consciousness. Fuck you, I’m not gonna answer that gloomy calling.
It’s nothing. It’s just kind of nothing. What’s kind of nothing? Nothing’s kind of nothing. Bloody surprise, isn’t it? A plastic fever. In every moment we have two basic options: to be dead or to be alive. Isn’t it wonderful? It’s always something spectacular. It shall always be the most spectacular choice you could’ve been given for free. I let them forget. It’s kind of charming, anyway, it’s disgusting. Pretty mindfuckers. It’s kind of this kind of a kind nightmare to become a part of me. Very kind. Is it desperate or just blind? It’s like I’m drowning deep down in the space, just like a small dead rabbit. So drowsy. So drowsy. So deadly drowsy, so damnly drowsy. Drowsy, drowsy, drowsy. There’s nothing but this bunch of roses. So stupid. I care for people who are not even humans for me. Indeed. What, the fuck, is going on?! The grass was stormy that night. Upon the light. Homeless & hopeless. That’s the sensation. Darkness. Too near to be real, too far to be fake. Trying to extricate from this volatile world is driving me round the bend. But I know, the point is to believe that your destiny hasn’t been lost. Hasn’t been lost… that much. On the path that leads to nowhere. Steadily stargazing. Sylvaner sky. Floral drowning. Just like your thought. Just like your flower. Dead amen.
Always a spy, never a killer. Always the last child of future generations. Never promised to be born.
Reckless and wild. The Savior.
Brothers of the haunted blood, we spend our days crying for baptism by the river of life. And here we are, back, in the garden of mythic delights. Pure. Beautiful. Unraveled. Snake’s children with the ancient sun on our tails. In the eye of the greatest imposter.
Not able to see you down the street below your confident being, she was sleeping in the voice of depth. Pacing through the void of thousand suns.
Breed city lights upon the nights. Festive silence. As far, as rotten shall it be. And then there’ll be no sign of life but this joyful river of dark, dark fate. One hell of a time – how shall it equal being new again? The most justifying hour.
City. It’s just a place we leave our hearts in and then we die like every thing. Except these words.
The infantry of infants. Soldier of solitude. Fake & envious. Not jealous. There’s a cruel connection between space & will. Believe me, the end is coming to wake you up since the day you were unborn. Wake up, child, wake up. Keep your thoughts into the dust. Pointless words and restless nights – it’ll be all gone forever. Fly, fly higher and deeper. Into the lust. Straight into dust. It’s just another day to die. It’s just another way to kill yourself with a gentle crime. We’re all locked up in eternity for ever.
They stormed us into the bargain of our own hearts. And that’s how we’ve sold our dreams. A few skies under the Red Babylon. Children of radiance, charm and thought. With too many broken bones within this ether. Have you ever felt that everything world once used to be melts and sinks through the bars of your hands? If we only could grab the riverblade blindly on this junkyard road.
Because it hurts to be overdreamed to the core. Time is not necessitated. Let it be neglected. Let it burn us down. Let us be thorn by the sudden horses of its insane melody. Come on, jester, let’s unchain the absence of endless war. – said the last Scorpio among the living man, standing on the edge of the battle line.
Things. Things, things, things. Why are they being so nasty? Naughty little words of things. Stupid little havin’-fans.