I think and I drink, Wright songs and I sing. To get out of this self I've constructed of idealistic personalities. They aren't me im on the brink. I've built my whole life playing tricks with bricks. Closing in what I am to those around me, posing skin the cover of a magazine, of lies. So the **** I hide won't get covered with flies. And I realize I'm becomming of a man so sad he can't even find pride. Not in accomplishment nor companionship. It's fair to say friends are friends until the end sends an envelope of notes unkind giving light to bind myself with what's inside. Because I might someday try. My soul is a composition of led zeppelin and stairway to heaven, baethoven's Symphony number seven. Bellowing strings low and bold. Ascending rings and tones echoing to show a bullet thats blown a hole in my imagination. then strangling inhalation. Creation will cease, a fillnal breath to be at peace. Maybe a surprise. But that'll be the day the music dies.