and yes, everything is going good. and yes, in fact, everything is going great.
and yes, there is only a few months till you wander off into the concrete jungle of grown up and ready to be owned by high end corporations. i hope you don't receive a bite from the feral boulevards because obamacare is about to depart.
and yes, we're still confined to juvenile misfortunes (more me than you) — limited clock, bloodline affairs, native roots trying to prick grandmother's ago into my arteries, out of reachable bounds, drowning in exhaustion, and flooded with reverberate blues.
and yes, we are not pieced together. sometimes, i find you in tokyo and the next day, you're on saturn, without me (you know that's my favorite planet). but, that should not send stew down my throat. it's my fault. how should i expect you to send a signal if my parents gnawed off the wires?
and yes, i know more about self-destruction than i do about the back of my hand. but, you are illiterate to this, which is okay because i will never enlighten you when it comes to this subject.
and yes, we are in a masquerade. you are crimson folk and i am all golden punk. i wrote a song for you and they played it while the ball was out and the lights shook the earth. it's all loud and shouty and you don't speak foreign tongue, so you cannot comprehend. and that's okay. you would hate my words anyways.
we dance we dance we dance we dance we dance we die. we die hard. we die harder. we die hardest. your soothing tongue will be held up. my mangled tongue will be thrown down. this is our armageddon — swift, loud, and incredibly fun. we are sewn together.
and yes, everything is going good. and yes, in fact, everything is going great.
