It's as though this needle needs my broken record.
Skip. Let's not go through the twelve steps of wonton desire, okay?
You can only talk so much until the fallacy of impulse control looses it luster, plunging deftly into your veins. Who's to say what's right, wrong or necessary anymore? A streetcar named, 'Terminal Impact'.
Structure is an arbitrary farce, ya dig? An illusionary construct granting titles. Help. I can feel it coursing through my poisoned ribcage, caving it in with malice and malevolent intent, seriously. Good morning, sinner, sinner, sinner, I break this song for you (sinner) I want this all for you. Why? You think I'd make this rambling up / kick these signs down to the floor?