This collection of sketches
rough and scattered is arranged by instinct,
Theres entropy yet work, but mostly it happened by accident
sure a story goes with this, but for it to make sense you'd have to be me,
and for it to make dollars I would have to be something I despise,
don't ask me how i manage, no-one get's paid to make change,
every morning i salute the flag, turn, grab the fingers of my left hand behind my back and continue my search.
I'm wondering how I got here,
Who besides me is responsible?
I'm not the young man I was when I first wrote the code,
Now I dont have it in me to fuss over much,
I need sleep more than ever before.
What remains of my violence is so precious that i keep it all of it to myself.
what frightens me most now is my gradual loss of hearing,
so i'm guided more and more by vibes,
i shield my ass from flickering images and document my dreams with as much detail as possible,
I figure I'll write my book when its all I can do but I don't know,
have you any idea how hot these sands are?
ya, i come in contact with the odd scavenger here and there, but those encounters rarely amount to much
I just gaze the same few black and white photographs - distant lives, long lost souls, diamonds of my most glorious moments,
I remember the gold rush
ya, she makes me laugh now to think of the risks i took
the monuments will remain, and thats all that matters but the question alwyas becomes
'Am I happy?'
When young, we mourn for one woman,
when we grow old, for woman in general,
the tradgey in life is man is never free,
yet strives for what can never be,
the thing most feared in secrets, always happen: my life, my love, where are they now?
but the more the pain grows, the more this instinct for life somehow asserts itself,
the necessary beauty in life is giving yourself to it completely.
only later will it varify itself as not coherant
