Headaches for the cure.
The ink is sweet and alluring; headaches in a barrel curing with age like wine. One sip, one sniff and all the time in wait is forgotten.
The scent goes under the nose, slips beneath sensibility, and before you know it: you're hallucinating.
The scent stimulates fantasy sight, touch, and sound. It stimulates your cognitive processes and forms fantastic simulated reality.
It goes beyond sense like all things unreal, and like all things unreal it's too good to be true. So fearing the loss of such good, our experience is kept on the nose, and on the nose it lingers even once the ink has long since dried out.
One sip, one sniff, and all the time in wait is forgotten-
but the secrets and deception serve as constant reminders just short of a taste,
and the wait for oblivion stretches out forever.
The scent goes under the nose, slips beneath sensibility, and before you know it: you're hallucinating.
The scent stimulates fantasy sight, touch, and sound. It stimulates your cognitive processes and forms fantastic simulated reality.
It goes beyond sense like all things unreal, and like all things unreal it's too good to be true. So fearing the loss of such good, our experience is kept on the nose, and on the nose it lingers even once the ink has long since dried out.
One sip, one sniff, and all the time in wait is forgotten-
but the secrets and deception serve as constant reminders just short of a taste,
and the wait for oblivion stretches out forever.