This is the ritualistic act of reason. A Sunday suicide. Sabbath.
Don Henley blaring, the Sun never gentle today, the smoked scent of fiery places.
May the bridges I burnt light the way. You wanted to be worshipped so I made a temprorary shrine of the ashes of what it used to be and your Valhalla are the places you loved so.
Laurel wreath, all the deities saw me singing The Carpenters this afternoon. Breathe in hard and breathe out dust, I felt like pumping out the weight of the world and into the clear toussle of a small fire in a world inside the magazines. The CD melts mercury. Every single lie you have said to me carried into the open sky, lighter than stray dandelions.
I'll keep my promises. If I ever have kids in the future, they should know of you, Hadrian. I would want to see Antinous Mondragone someday. Let me know someday what did you saw in me that made you thought, "Oh my god, this is the perfect sacrifice, the façade ultimately I will break this piece until dust."
My, my, my, Hadrian.
In kerosene doused words in less than a thousand pages of maps and magazines, I wouldn't mind if you do the same. Henley did say it's about forgiveness but I'm not sure if that is what each of us wants anymore, right? Hey, I thought of it too: what could be the possible underlying reason? The best answer I could come up was that I've saw people doing the same thing. It doesn't help my case, I admit, but this was tradition. You could keep up.
You keep carrying that anger, it'll eat you up inside...
Domingo en fuego. I think I've lost my halo.
