the flesh is still peeling out at the kiss of the lime slaked and raking fangs across the folicles. All music is broken and re-assembled before me and the black and white memory is an italian passer by. Pedestrons on a sidewalk that seem to know me better than i know me and know me from a passers by opinion and their little thoughts and words and that it passes back to me makes me nauseaous and changes my opinion of my opinion of my grace and my race onto the train goin my way.
al i really care about it the silence in the space between my heart beats where all illusion drops to the sides and where the bass drop in some of these tracks. Death the surreal skeleton hunched in my slit eyes and chasing my shadow to get close to where i am still.