The candy-coated fluorescent man, dressed in a red robe and top hair, a mustache from the tip, to the shine, marching on with the mouses, mouses is what you find at home, rats are what you find outside.
They named an ice cream after a natural disaster. Is it to imply, people die for sweets? I must not be human then. I think of sweets as a nutrient, to help my brain think faster in dire moments.
There's just no simple way to hide from the sun. When we said we would stop, and take a load off, our backs against the wall, full of concrete, such a loving feeling, we could almost taste it.
Outside, the musicians play, an unfamiliar song, of intricate melodies and industrial drum beats. I can't find my way, the song seems to be leading me somewhere, a mystery, a house, get ready set to burn.
Stranger than love, this, your absolute ridiculous demands for behaviour that is beyond that of even the purest of beings. Like asking of a whore, to stain her panties white. The audacity to even suggest, you're crazy.
And what came to pass, came to end. The books binding, left to right, holding their own, holding their time. Sweet salvation surely must suffice, divides, merely a term in mathematics. I wish to never see you again.
It gets sweeter if you try. It gets simpler if you keep the doors opened. If you hear a rumour, squash it, know that I never said such things, know that I never ran, faster than time could keep.
Intentions reaching a fever pitch. Nobody's perfect. Intentions reaching a fever pitch. Nobody's perfect. Intentions reaching a fever pitch. Nobody's perfect. Intentions reaching a fever pitch. Nobody's perfect.
I don't think "Faith" and "Trust" are the same things. I don't sit with the people who sit on fences. Why don't we sleep at night? I said, why don't we sleep at night like bats like stars like dark grey skies.