im pretty much a bullshit artist

i(t/n)ching my way behind your eyes and into your dire dreams.

it would mean the world, but the world don't mean much to her anymore.

i wanna ignore you, but only for long enough so we could think of something new to say. wandering minds and blue blood caught between the cracks in that recondite record. less like the broken one you threw away, and more like the broken one you just can't get rid of. still spinning. let history repeat itself so we'll know what to expect. the final rotation. we're distributed among a hundred shards of black and technicolor coverart. sevens from a sawed off shotgun across the floor. a hundred opportunities to break skin. like broken flesh carried through car windows and bank robberies. scattered. not like sinful words in an anonymous booth on a sunday night, but more like puzzle pieces that you collect and put back together the next day.

and when he breaths in another white li(n)e it feels a lot like five, four, three, two..

you are the swan
i am the song