I´m aimless not even a possibility could steer me in the right direction.
A lovely slice of confusion cake, it got me nowhere near my destination.
A container with no substance inside. It carries simply pure dehydration.
That container... someday i´ll fill it with purpose.
A dead fly, one dead maggotless fly, just to dry... dry out in some strong sunny summer afternoon.
Pointless.
Blind now and bleeding bound by balls of fury.
Mumble and ramble to interact, bleed, bleed, bleed.
Aimless and restless call me a child of god and I´ll pay for offending existance.
By it keeping me and destiny at an incredible distance.
You´ll never need instructions to suffocate a prayer.
This container is often filled with the juice of confusion brewed by ghost mechanics.
Their transparent tools mixing the dark juice. That juice is delivered to you.
Don´t forget the dead fly under the magnifying glass and to my amazement pulsating with a grin and a jeer, the dead pregnant fly on some icey autumn morning.
And the repulsive turn so sharply and sublime into beauty that binds balls of lust.
How could this world´s same beauty hide so well from your eyes.
Why do you worship fury? And welcome it like some long lost friend?
Little balls of fury blasting holes through your abode. There´s no polar opposite to the container of confusion.
Clarity´s a word for temporary amusement. Come on down and love the inevitability of shattered truths.
So come down now and buy this absurdity. This confusion, this blood, this fuel.
I´ll be your host you can call me aimless.
It´s selling for under a dollar, dead pretty flies don´t come cheap.
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