Art imitates life imitates art.
It is even more apt this time than it was before. I wonder if it has something to do with the collective unconscious and how we're probably reading each others' minds all the time, or at least someone's reading mine. I'm trying to feel properly affronted, but I can only laugh at the silly fucking circus that so much of it has become. Expected. Like Danny Boyle showed us: it is written. It's already there, somewhere, and maybe I tapped into it. Or it tapped into me, so now I'm thinking of the abyss and how they tell you to watch your fucking back.
I should know better I should know better I should know better, but that doesn't help in the end. Right again. Lyrics: again and again again again again again. It's like a joke with the fucking joke written out. And then you wonder why I think the way I do; believe what I believe. Again and again, and I'm still waiting for someone to prove me wrong. Thought it would be you.
This is about HIGH FUCKING HOPES.
I'm tired and I miss my fucking MacBook. Everyone is falling apart over here, limbs detaching. Detatching? Fuck spelling. All I can do is watch it happen to them and wonder if it's not a better thing that I keep it locked up. But then the argument falls apart, because if it was under my control, this wouldn't be here at all.
Clauses. Loopholes. And all the fucking itoldyousos. I told you so I told you so I told you so. Because that makes it true, doesn't it? Superstitions and lifting your feet and holding your breath. I held my fucking breath. Now we have to surface like my cheeks aren't red and like I didn't like fucking in the back of that car and how we couldn't find the lines anymore. 1 2 3 collapse. That's how it happened. Measured doses in spit and sweat and licking your fingers.
I missed it when I found a replacement for timid hands. The truth is there cannot be a second. A fucking Copeland song before they sucked, and I gave the context away. It doesn't matter, not in the end when it's just you and me and cotton sheets.
Now they can't see it at all. No wonder they think you're fucking crazy.
It is even more apt this time than it was before. I wonder if it has something to do with the collective unconscious and how we're probably reading each others' minds all the time, or at least someone's reading mine. I'm trying to feel properly affronted, but I can only laugh at the silly fucking circus that so much of it has become. Expected. Like Danny Boyle showed us: it is written. It's already there, somewhere, and maybe I tapped into it. Or it tapped into me, so now I'm thinking of the abyss and how they tell you to watch your fucking back.
I should know better I should know better I should know better, but that doesn't help in the end. Right again. Lyrics: again and again again again again again. It's like a joke with the fucking joke written out. And then you wonder why I think the way I do; believe what I believe. Again and again, and I'm still waiting for someone to prove me wrong. Thought it would be you.
This is about HIGH FUCKING HOPES.
I'm tired and I miss my fucking MacBook. Everyone is falling apart over here, limbs detaching. Detatching? Fuck spelling. All I can do is watch it happen to them and wonder if it's not a better thing that I keep it locked up. But then the argument falls apart, because if it was under my control, this wouldn't be here at all.
Clauses. Loopholes. And all the fucking itoldyousos. I told you so I told you so I told you so. Because that makes it true, doesn't it? Superstitions and lifting your feet and holding your breath. I held my fucking breath. Now we have to surface like my cheeks aren't red and like I didn't like fucking in the back of that car and how we couldn't find the lines anymore. 1 2 3 collapse. That's how it happened. Measured doses in spit and sweat and licking your fingers.
I missed it when I found a replacement for timid hands. The truth is there cannot be a second. A fucking Copeland song before they sucked, and I gave the context away. It doesn't matter, not in the end when it's just you and me and cotton sheets.
Now they can't see it at all. No wonder they think you're fucking crazy.
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