Well you said, ‘If I ever became a gypsy,’….
if you seek knowledge of self, you’ve probably felt dealt the wrong hand by some fantasy man that lives in the sky. and though I believe in that same strange notion, an ocean of confirmation wouldn’t be enough to explain why. the line isn’t a line, or a plus sign, or a cube, its a simple sphere moving so fast that lives come unglued. and somewhere in the hues of what our eyes see as blues, the rouse is camouflaged and in awe (CLAP), you’re used. clues to this are all around, but the sound of our own voices are busy in drowning out the pounds. Forget the heartbeats of clowns, cause thats what we are now: an intricate and forgotten part of someone else’s art we pick apart when our own light shadows our dark. the rhythms changed now to distract shallow breathing, mimicking acts of sleeping, scene: awake. take two hands to flip a light switch. cause with just one, you might twitch, miss, and fuck up all of this.
i know, i know. i’m not making mary a sense.
but is any of that irrelevant?
Because if I said it in the tongue that we so often ride for fun, I know you’ll just skip the difficult parts of it.
