Dead fish and half open eyes. A carousel slowly turning in the night sky. Streetlights vomit, as do you. Falling snow as spiders creep across the carpet to the sound of ritual fucking. Spread wide open while breathing in the scent of oranges, your fingers pluck away at the past. There’s this girl; she knows who she is. She wears her sorrow with pride; she tells no lies, half the time at least. There’s something about her, something that fires you up. Through cycles of stagnation, she bubbles away beneath the surface. When you gaze up at the moon, her presence is strong. Closed eyes and damp bedsheets, in graveyards and in parks. From here to there. She was always a part of you. She, the one who took a slice and kept it for her own amusement. One afternoon in the midst of whatever, you realise that the beauty of life is in the journey. That there’s no destination, and all you think you know is built upon a lie. Climbing ladders and the fear of snakes. It’s the snakes that make it all worthwhile. The ladder is endless, and if climbed, will lead only to starvation. I’ve tasted wealth, and it bored the hell out of me. The in-between; that’s where I want to be. Someplace far away from happy endings and misery. There’s this girl. Autumn leaves and stray dogs. Rivers and mice. Curtains that keep you from the garden. She has this body, this sweet little temple. The taste of it, it drives you wild. Walking around the quarry, she was your only companion. She hated it, but it made you smile. Pyramid head. The taste of tea. My mind races from one subject to the next. Ripping up floorboards all those years ago. I could be clearer, but where would the fun be in that? It shouldn’t be about possession. You can’t take it with you. It’s all about secrets, and in my pocket they rattle like teeth. The fires that burn in your belly and the madness that lurks just out of view. Madness is the key. Let it take you away from those who preach the good fight only to end up wearing a suit. Once the likes of them get a sniff of power, they’ll sell themselves quicker than a whore on the night before Christmas. Don’t try to hide it, and don’t fade away. Be reckless. Be an atom bomb in a gust of wind, seconds from destruction so dazzling and free.