pronouns.
Step one and two and three and here go around it, left to right and back again, repetition breeds contempt at content, and this context has long since passed beyond exception, the rules have been pushed to the maximum exertion allowed under their current stress quotients. So, count the steps and move to the beat, ones and twos and fives (wait, what?), the seizure-induced coma of rhythm bringing a small measure of peace and contentment to the addled brain of modern living, the very model of a modemed major general. Syncopate the lights, count back to zero and let go of anything which might possibly be misconstrued as "untoward" or "unlikely" or "desperation" or other words of similar affect, I (I?) can't allow these things in my (my?) head (heart?). There's things that should not be said or done in polite company, and the black hole bearing down on the bright baubles of downtown at midnight holds no mercy or compassion for those who choose otherwise.
Static grows, the decisions close, and eyes that would usually be blue become gray and look elsewhere and not into yours. But you're used to this. You use it. You fuel the late night rampages and general disarray with is and thusly cut down all who displease you in an orgy of blood and stark horror and no one shall escape me (you!), and so it goes. The best lack all sense of other while the worst lose the rhythm and plod one foot in front of the other until the lemmings drop off the cliff like a crashing stock market investor falling from the 17th story past your office window. (Parkinson? Johnson!)
You keep your heart, but you lose everything else, and whatever's wrong, you deal with it, because Here. Come. The Drums. And your eyes close and what once seemed drastic becomes underwhelming, and the sound builds and builds to the most glorious crescendo, and you will it to continue forever but it dissipates like sugar in water and I go home to digital delayed reactions and simple silence and you wonder if there is any way it can ever last but you doubt it, oh how you doubt it, and I frustrate and debate and create until your hands are cracked and bruised and it's ok because here it comes and six and seven and eight and we're done.
Static grows, the decisions close, and eyes that would usually be blue become gray and look elsewhere and not into yours. But you're used to this. You use it. You fuel the late night rampages and general disarray with is and thusly cut down all who displease you in an orgy of blood and stark horror and no one shall escape me (you!), and so it goes. The best lack all sense of other while the worst lose the rhythm and plod one foot in front of the other until the lemmings drop off the cliff like a crashing stock market investor falling from the 17th story past your office window. (Parkinson? Johnson!)
You keep your heart, but you lose everything else, and whatever's wrong, you deal with it, because Here. Come. The Drums. And your eyes close and what once seemed drastic becomes underwhelming, and the sound builds and builds to the most glorious crescendo, and you will it to continue forever but it dissipates like sugar in water and I go home to digital delayed reactions and simple silence and you wonder if there is any way it can ever last but you doubt it, oh how you doubt it, and I frustrate and debate and create until your hands are cracked and bruised and it's ok because here it comes and six and seven and eight and we're done.