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and i escape again. take off running bare-foot into snow-covered woods, collapse breathless under playground structures at 3am, the corner of my room, i'm always hiding from something, someone, somewhere, somehow... and what does it give me? it gives me a 15 minute section of fame amongst other restless escapists. does it work? are you safe yet? did you evade the monster by hiding under the covers or are you merely waiting for some golden icon of safety to carry you down to the breakfast table for your morning programming (i dont mean t.v.). i threw the blankets away and ran screaming down the hall in the hopes nothing catches me, and some 15 years later i still run from every monster i suspect of wanting to cause me harm... come and get me creatures of the night.

years after the genesis of this project, the epic first steps in no specific direction... i have recorded in tatters and journals, an illiad of emptiness, an exhaustive concordance of suffering that neither enlightens nor lightens the burden... but it's ok. pain reminds me why what i plan on doing is important, pain IS human life. nothing you love would be as beautiful without struggle, nor desirable without obstacle.
of course, i say this whilst i hate the "hard-to-get" and live for instant up, instant down, instant wake... always filling myself with lies and chemicals.
alarm-clock waking and red-eyed late-night stirring, physical unrest is a metaphoric manifestation
before long, thoughts bred of infestation re-work and re-wire
synaptic misfire
and every day a count-down to a glorious funeral pyre for a man who never accomplished a thing
i can hear the streets sing,
i hear sweet songs on the rain
i hear anguished choruses and build-ups
and i hear it all because i've been awake too long.
sometimes, i wonder where i fit in (in this song)
what have i contributed to this earth other than a handful of stories
and 4 glorious little hands?
and of my own, are they not clay?
awash in tears and fading
in my struggle i find my two selves debating
right and wrong, things forgotten or known all along
fatalism, happenstance
silent recreational womb designs
through lyrics, rhymes, and darkened lights
water washed sounds and isolation
i know no more now than when born except how many things i am guilty for having done
having stated this so plainly, i am done

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