Alcohol, the artificial happiness
Seems cheaper than the real thing
Rooms spinning like depressing theme parks
Pavements became pillows

My mouth tastes like sour ash
The start of the night never existed
It always felt like it was about to end
But time became a fairy tale

Feeling indestructible to the world
But a victim to yourself
A Grenade that lost its pin
Weapons became bottled up.

Sometimes the night is so quiet
feels like it's demanding us
to disperse into its chasm
like the seeds of silence
and caressed by the darkness
A perfect zilch to be within
leaving me with a kind of abscess that only a deadly cold could favour me such
and me lying and enduring the abyss.....