You'd best believe we gonna be mixing it up with somebody... or some thing... Or, cut to the chase. Yes, fuzzy-head friend, I know, I'd do it too, I'd trade every hair left for a right word. The problem is the venue, gotta code your way to an escape, for what? This Bastille sideshow? Hell no, don't go, wallow, till the apocalypse finds you, assuming it'll ever make it to this crevasse - crease? Carcinogenic gas will suffice, six thousand sided dice, pass the time, your time, whoever cares to drop by. Wish you could make trades, a friendly shadow for these dime a dozen sallow faces in high-def.
It sounds good, but it's empty, by which I mean simply stymied. I mean that simply, it's a simple matter of meaning. A full complement of trazadone might pass through the sky, missing both dream-eaters and semioticians on speed - but I'll know there's a difference between those other ego-trips on the couch, and those scrap metal epics under the bedcovers - what that signifies, i will pose as an unanswerable question in the margins of a pop rock anthem
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