the breakdown was mutual… the manacles set upon the wrists… the diseased mind permeates the foul and sanctified heat of resistance… the stink of awareness from the outside world revealing the madness within this maelstrom… the dripping and gooey internal structure fairly teeters with the substance falling from the ceiling… you raise your eyes to notice that stalagmites extend downward toward you, and this pit seems far too small… to express your way out of a paper bag is nothing so intense as performing your way out of a jagged hole inside your heart… this is where things have been taking place of late… the mind becomes far too tight and constraining upon itself to be of any real use… the music is alive, though, and there are few who would wish to see it… this other necessary entity …
out of Context;
‘Disaster-deranged through moral lens, and logic defends bad luck brain dead, for the sake of realism amusing the listeners’ abstract relay of pain and humor and irony. The vision is still the same viable thing, but it is then that you look to the relevant tangibility within the vision, to manifest the answer to your questions that have created themselves to teach. Teach yourself the words that you know the song to, hum it while you think through all that clutter, and beyond the distraction will be found that recuperative resolve that is necessary through harsh storms of internal rhythm and beat…’
out of Context;
‘Only if one should abide by the realization of the negative forces, does the energy become heavily charged against the individual, and conceptual reality bends against this negative pull…Consistent preoccupation with these dark forces can leave one embittered, and this can be the true hazard when dealing with negative energy, underestimating the potential while over-shooting the kinetic as it plays itself out…’
…is such a lackluster thing. Working for nearly minimum wage, writing music when ever possible, or inspired, rarely though do those things coincide…. but then I’m not starting from the beginning am I?
I suppose to start from the very beginning would be fruitless and you’d lose interest somewhere along the way, while I ramble on and on about the happenings of my 11th and 12th years of existence here on this plane. So I’ll take a page from George Lucas and start talking when the talking gets good, and maybe if you’re interested, I’ll tell you the prequel later.
His name was Jake, and one day there he was sitting next to me in my homeroom class at Burr Road here in podunk no-fucking-where. I introduced myself to him, and we became friends slowly through the course of that year. …
Do you think you can yourself a person?…A human being?… Well, this has just got to go. We can’t stand here spending time away being so polite that we all just must die! What existence is this to inflict upon everyone else?…Is that a fair and just world? A place where the innocent are not even born anymore, but lost, somewhere in the haze of all the emotions. This percolating distrust that everyone seems to enjoy degenerating others with, fancying themselves wizards of the world’s ways, and delighting in utmost torture without another’s consent. A grim substance of pain that should have its end crushed underfoot, preferably by someone in a boot, and one of the mangle all type of footwears, too! Like outta some movie, or something. We distract ourselves for the real issues all the time, ingraining …
The sounds of distress from a dying age…Here is where we begin our quest…Fuck buying tickets….you are already aboard the express train…
