Current Mood:Calm.
Current Music: 'De-Loused In The Comatorium' by The Mars Volta


It's intriguing to find that the ones we should love the most are those we fear of becoming. It's a simple matter-of-fact, that word of love, that inescapable giant. Loves makes the world go round. It's also what kills people. Graves are dug side-by-side, underground cocoons to some terrestrial planet. There's one life, here's the next. Take it as it comes. I fail to believe that we'll reach some nirvana. I suppose heaven is Earth. Where else do we find opportunity? Where else can we fly? Hallelujah, I'll say, today I'm alive, who knows about tomorrow. People are complex systems of curves and lines. They either enrapture you, or are just another face to take tally. They are plopped down, and sown in society, they'll flourish then die, some might harvest early. The farmer reaps his bounty, and sits down each day to the last supper. Every day's an end; every day's a new beginning. Let's sit and ponder the meaning of life. Maybe we'll become enlightened for once, and admire our surroundings. They're blanched and dry, saturated and vibrant, satisfying to the unsophisticated pallet. The world turns round and falls on edge, it's merely a child wishing that it could grow into its surroundings. It's merely a man searching for his face....