I am sitting here - contemplating my life, my lies. I hone my affixation onto this death which is always just thimbles on, thin hills reach out of my grasp. I'm protected. No amount of outreach can grip a worthy life, so death it is, but ensheathed I still cling onto existence. So, this is what, "Limbo" I guess, for whatever FUCKING reason!
I hem and haw on these trivialities, but it's all for naught. Yet I've not forgotten.
No rest for ye old weary. No amount of sleep to revive the dead. No effort to sustain the unsustainable - forever in suspension. I feel trapped in a free fall to a bottomless plateau. I'm always on top when there's no possible end to the depths of the holes I've dug. Paradoxical and not at all. All in all - you ring I'll call. No one's there but everyone who wouldn't ever pay the time of day to shine on your night. Whoever we are, or who are you, there's nothing we've seen. Through and through. The descent from the bottoms up is perfectly within attrition when you've let your head go.
To go with substance on insubstantial fruition. To be bearing nothing but the emptiness in your own lack of self. I've freed my mind, man! It's expansion! Rock and roll!
Rocks roll alright. The beer rolls smoothly down my gullet as the cracks melt down into headless rock, so heady. My metaphysical alignment to the idea of being stone cold sober doesn't roll, so I rock in place. Flying, high, falling a speck like a fly into the fucking dirt.
Total. Fucking. Loser.
I hem and haw on these trivialities, but it's all for naught. Yet I've not forgotten.
No rest for ye old weary. No amount of sleep to revive the dead. No effort to sustain the unsustainable - forever in suspension. I feel trapped in a free fall to a bottomless plateau. I'm always on top when there's no possible end to the depths of the holes I've dug. Paradoxical and not at all. All in all - you ring I'll call. No one's there but everyone who wouldn't ever pay the time of day to shine on your night. Whoever we are, or who are you, there's nothing we've seen. Through and through. The descent from the bottoms up is perfectly within attrition when you've let your head go.
To go with substance on insubstantial fruition. To be bearing nothing but the emptiness in your own lack of self. I've freed my mind, man! It's expansion! Rock and roll!
Rocks roll alright. The beer rolls smoothly down my gullet as the cracks melt down into headless rock, so heady. My metaphysical alignment to the idea of being stone cold sober doesn't roll, so I rock in place. Flying, high, falling a speck like a fly into the fucking dirt.
Total. Fucking. Loser.
