Progressively Propelled Petulantly Past Pensive Past-times
Current times
See me delving into antiquated past perspectives of art de boheme and all that might so, seem.
Dig this.
Bringin' it back.
Consciously constructing a culmination of events...on a time line... for a escape route.
A nine year obsession.
Too long on personal terms.
Salvation at the sale of a soul.
Let's go.
Pass the wheel to the first person willing to drive.
...all i want is to be able to control the respective gas and break pedals.
But, even that's not too sure. No time to read the small print.
Personal manipulation of perspective. Try not to make it all run together, in a cosmic puddle, some giant blur. With one single minded drive, not to continually fight against my mind. [As I have done before.] Sniffing around persistently, to pick up the sent. Grasping for help that might be lent. So, into the wildness I'll go. The words of others flow forth, as a false river of promise...a mirage of hope, for help. As the decision is finally made to lean forward and sip from the offerings, the river suddenly runs dry, sources of the springs collectively close, and all that is left is a copious amount of sand...in the mouth and nose.
Well? I've run as far as i feel i can stomach. All I've got left is this flimsy shovel. There's water beneath this parched desert of false promise and depleted hope. I'll dig....with the tool I have... if i must. It might not be the pure blue water of the promised river, but I'll sure settle for some Tijuana run-off rather than die in this fucking hell hole.
See me delving into antiquated past perspectives of art de boheme and all that might so, seem.
Dig this.
Bringin' it back.
Consciously constructing a culmination of events...on a time line... for a escape route.
A nine year obsession.
Too long on personal terms.
Salvation at the sale of a soul.
Let's go.
Pass the wheel to the first person willing to drive.
...all i want is to be able to control the respective gas and break pedals.
But, even that's not too sure. No time to read the small print.
Personal manipulation of perspective. Try not to make it all run together, in a cosmic puddle, some giant blur. With one single minded drive, not to continually fight against my mind. [As I have done before.] Sniffing around persistently, to pick up the sent. Grasping for help that might be lent. So, into the wildness I'll go. The words of others flow forth, as a false river of promise...a mirage of hope, for help. As the decision is finally made to lean forward and sip from the offerings, the river suddenly runs dry, sources of the springs collectively close, and all that is left is a copious amount of sand...in the mouth and nose.
Well? I've run as far as i feel i can stomach. All I've got left is this flimsy shovel. There's water beneath this parched desert of false promise and depleted hope. I'll dig....with the tool I have... if i must. It might not be the pure blue water of the promised river, but I'll sure settle for some Tijuana run-off rather than die in this fucking hell hole.