Our last night
It’s been four years strong since the early November has transformed from autumn to ashes.
Between the cannibal pulps, we attempt to catch the catcher by the fiction in which we live in. Through a house of sound, five fears and loathing’s, the fury ignites because what happens in Vegas is buried beneath. But a fetus is born, and the rye survives. This is why I’m taking back Sunday. It’s the killers and their empire. It’s something corporate but they say we have to find acceptance. I know they’re after us and I know the cure, but please just keep it a secret and whisper. I do not want to be murdered by death because every time I die in my sleep I wake up and hear a static lullaby. It is my calling. It is my circa survive. I will eat the world this vampire weekend and it will be the story of the year. My American heart pumps solid cold blood. It’s a game of coldplay and say anything you want but I’m used to it. And yes, I am human. We are all human but there is something different going on. Minus the bear, I will be as tall as lions and it will be a day to remember because I will save the day as we dash through the friendly fires. I will find the passion pit. Before the riot, my senses fail and my third eye is blind. I begin to look for Dillinger because he’s got an escape plan. Alexisonfire! I begin to hear deaf tones in my ears and I finally realize who we really are. It’s the artists vs. the poets and you too.