(no subject)
if inspiration were the true innocents of regret, sence you live your life like torrents in the ocean.
the city'd never burn like rain, the fire dimmed and dashed them, sucidal tendencies: a lack of words, blazed in the driest sences, and risen in regret to feel a certain gloomy feeling, and in the essence of death, we crawl out of our caves and into a world like no other. A rush of the sences, and a toungue without phrase or phormat, little in the croud, but jestures to create the mood, to flock through madness like raging razors accross the paper and the paper cut it gave you in the begging. Just another emotion. Belive me when I say, nothing's ever same, simplify, simplfiy, simplify, give up all you got. Start at new, by noon, your just stoned. Not like nothing, the nothing no one can utter. Alive is better than death, by far, no pressence in the room can feel it if your cold, and even in eye's burning heat. Till death does part us all, and it's the end of time. Our time spent with eachother, is like nothing better.
Nobody can empathize, but to my surprise, I've survived to recognize, this endless empathy, this timeless non-replacable given peace. In two words those form, love.
In any respect at all, I dislike the word: NOTHING. And in any dislikes: I dislike relationship issues deeling with money, and in all of any words I can show, I gotta get back to those yips. Cuz you know, they're so entirely hip. You got?
No. Right.
I want to stay 17. And I love the greatfull dead with a passion, and I love the roses. Blink. just blink, and breath in for a second, and if i am not doing this now, which I'm not. Just do it anyway. Maybe the devil was who had the worst thought than anybody else when he passed away.
Good night