Burning inside. Metal through the atmosphere. Persona's. Rewind and falling. cold and ugly. Alone and smitten. Type O. A space where the memory remains. Colourless life in pain. searching... for something or someone to maybe rearange and bring back the real colour to this.
How to think, how to see. How to live. One eye sees all. No mirrors, no desire, it is the love in things I have found that guides a soul so that means there is no love in any soul. Its just a ride. A bad one. It drains you from birth, It complicates you. It teaches you false things. A clock that counts the time. What is reality? things you think you know, a world you think you desire? Maybe an endless sea of consiousness pulsing through everything living? Where is the dead? The end. Have they gone underground? Who is fighting this reality? The hunter, the fisherman?
