cavorting in the killing fields
is probably not the best way to title this post. At most, this flow is just a free association, making random twists and dislocations at every turn.
You used to that by now, aren't you? How stupid do you have to be to hear me say no three times, and yet still barge inside, refusing me the right to peace that I keep inside my mind. Break the locks, boys, he can't hide forever, not even from himself. Candid conversations with magical elves that manifest themselves inside the glimmering sparkles of my eyes, and refuse to drop their disguise for anybody else.
Is it pride, or are they ashamed of themselves? It's like the frog in the box from the wb, only speaking when they're talking to me, and so everyone else is convinced that I'm crazy, but I couldn't be. Wouldn't it be nice if I could build a device that would let you all see the inside of my mind, played out on a big screen, with a soundtrack composed by the neurons of me, and all that I do is plug in the fire wire, I sit back in my chair, and I clear out my conscious, it flows through the cable, and wisdom comes out, so effortlessly, you can see on the screen the characters that bear their souls to me and the visual headache I take with me everywhere I go.
Random variations in the perspective of the audience provide a sense of depth, of fullness, and breathe life into a dying creation.
Why do I abort my greatest aspirations in favor of those what are weak and still born?
I wish I had some crayolas right now, cause I need to color...
You used to that by now, aren't you? How stupid do you have to be to hear me say no three times, and yet still barge inside, refusing me the right to peace that I keep inside my mind. Break the locks, boys, he can't hide forever, not even from himself. Candid conversations with magical elves that manifest themselves inside the glimmering sparkles of my eyes, and refuse to drop their disguise for anybody else.
Is it pride, or are they ashamed of themselves? It's like the frog in the box from the wb, only speaking when they're talking to me, and so everyone else is convinced that I'm crazy, but I couldn't be. Wouldn't it be nice if I could build a device that would let you all see the inside of my mind, played out on a big screen, with a soundtrack composed by the neurons of me, and all that I do is plug in the fire wire, I sit back in my chair, and I clear out my conscious, it flows through the cable, and wisdom comes out, so effortlessly, you can see on the screen the characters that bear their souls to me and the visual headache I take with me everywhere I go.
Random variations in the perspective of the audience provide a sense of depth, of fullness, and breathe life into a dying creation.
Why do I abort my greatest aspirations in favor of those what are weak and still born?
I wish I had some crayolas right now, cause I need to color...