(0211) all that you serve is dead

lipstick of preference, envy of the times. a cryptic response would not be any more likely given a matter of fact or fiction. feed their mouths with the critical doubt that nothing can ever be the same. i walked through the walls, and i held my breath. a balancing act indeed. there must have been a million faces. sequential thoughts - set aside. and i feel free again. alive - to the point of sedation every night. can't remember the past and can only envision the future. raindrops in motion; forceful negotiation underway. and i don't mind the memory loss. it just makes things clearer. no need for noise. no need for silence. just a need for emulation. exaltation. pen slips away; no thoughts come. only going. hold this in your broken hands while you walk though empty fields of sand. keep your finger on the trigger. maybe one day, it'll die so go ahead and try to pray yourself to heaven. just try.