Stretcher of horizons,
Hear my hollowed call
Scoff at the notion your hands are mine,
That these hands are mine
And how many hands is the horizon wide?

As I lift my eyes to see
Another one lays down their head to sleep
As I drink the plastics down
The plastic fills the sea
Plastic, which would make sense.
And as one of my cells undergoes apoptosis
An innocent soul is deceased.

But convenient, how convenient for you
That even though I know what apoptosis is--
A rare piece of knowledge to find in some random person 's repertoire
That i would not be afforded some kind of great prize for my knowledge,
That i should have to live as I do,
Small and appreciated in ways that wrinkle my nose
As the other half of me cringes and admonishes not to complain too much
Lest we forget the vibrant tones the virtuoso singer of reality played within our cortex just today.

And how strange it is, that even if I were afforded some great prize,
Well what is the danger in that?
Are we scared that it would not be enough
To ward off the suffering?
How many hoarded memories can we pile up before they collapse in on themselves,
Causing the faerie guardians of the Earth to lose their minds in a frenzied panic,
Causing all the ghosts of the dead to bemoan the futility of my private existence,
Rupturing Spirit itself, which howls like a lost wind at the edges of the universe,
Spiraling out of control and so far from the warmth of life,
Forced to be a stranger to itself in the grand scheme of nothingness,
To which it can tell it is intrinsically linked?

How many memories?

Well, as it turns out,
We got quite a lot,
But they're not all good.

And many of them are sort of just alright.

It's almost like we were rendering something grandiose
But bit off more than we could chew,
And our computer crashed two-thirds of the way through
And so much of what we intended to be rendered was corrupted,
Like I was misused and abused.

But by who? As I waste my time,
Thinking it a feat?

Is there anyone else to take the blame but myself?

For all the world's sins!? No, surely not, are you insane!
your sins, your sins, my child
You say,
Are all I ask you to atone for.

And even that is just a matter of perspective,
Maybe you believe in science.
But science just means knowledge and at this point I think you understand.

Don't put yourself on a pedestal,
Or inadvertently dream up a pedestal and find yourself atop it,
Get blamed for that,
And tear yourself down.

Now it's falling apart again.

We're only in this for the rotation.
Stand ready for automatic accusations,
Yes you made excuses yes they will jump out of your mouth.

Maybe they will never come,
Maybe it was just the feeling they would.

Automatic, all of it,
Can't take the pain away.
Why must we do this to ourselves?
No, we aren't, it's some other party some outside force
The universe
No it's not me
Not me
Not me

The Experience is mad at itself
Because it takes up its own space
Accusations fly
Like swine through melting skies

Don't harbor a bad reaction

You and me,
We can go around taping all the leaves back on trees.

We can try to eat better and pick up plastic.

I will hang my head and let Lacey lick my ear with his forked tongue
I will hum along as I try to read again, drowning in works untouched

I'll stop wondering what it means.

We can try and make peace with it
Dissolving and popping
Screaming eureka, hallelujah, the whole time.

I will probably start drinking again.

You and me, we can feel what's been happening
We design to ignore it, or design to accept it
Neither plan works and I'm lost and I wrecked it

I will definitely start drinking again.

But you left out the good parts
All you do is mope
What's left when you're down at the end of your rope?

Whose letter resides by your bed every night
Do you think you might see her again?
Well I might

This is all
Spinning together
Nothing to do with,
Tied by a zero.

Does the zero speak
What is the message
We've received?

Bye,
Bye bye
Goodbye!

Everything has to go away.

This is all
Cut from the tethers
But we can't pretend
That we're not together

Tell me a story about the one
Who escaped singularity
Who did not have to bow

She went on to live a new life,
Nothing like the last one.

But that man said he loved me
And he wants me to stay

I don't know if he loves me
I know he wants to mean it
But I don't know
Sometimes I just look at you
And you seem like the wrong person.

Cut my flesh and cut it into slivers
And twist them to a rose
I've become that fifth wheel of consciousness
Robert Smith turning 30 without ever having released an album
His musical passion, except muted choked and abandoned

I am the place where physics goes to die

I cannot prove who I think i am
I've read headlines about the ones who went off the rails

My organs have come together
To make something between art and happenstance
How confirmed your beauty is
And how subjective is the notion that I contain any at all

I have no legacy,
I have fussing and stretched and torn thanks

I have ducking my head while you beat your chest
Or fear of your razor sharp humility
While trying to hide my own
Which has been muttering ungrateful evils in that quarantined hut

I have no legacy,
You let me speak
And when I take my turn
The words are like dripping sewage
And the next one is a fine and practiced angel

Who worked their whole life just to accomplish some great thing.

Calm down
You're getting frantic
I have to look up
The word pedantic

Can't really sing
As if we planned it
So just rock out
To Stand Atlantic

Oh, misery
You're unprepared
If only you could prove
That it's not your choice
You can try to learn everything,
But why's it hard?

You could try to learn everything
But why's it so hard?

Isn't that a little suspicious?