How disjointed is our formation, where the robes of the deceased are removed in the ancient catacombs of political espionage in the name of solidarity.
Are the concepts of “meaning” or “definition” limited to the unfathomable parameters of what we call “time”?
I need you to take the lead, where thermals amongst cirrus vertebratus formations generate a sense of lift in our seemingly jointed and articulated society.
Have you ever felt the power of a vice? If you have, then how fictitious is reality?
She is the Spirit of our Age, and the English countryside needs your dark and ghostly shadow.
As the vanity of composure is not dissimilar to a charismatic vortex, I bid you to release my lyrical heart into the stratosphere where proclamations of ambivalent identity understand the nature of sound.