This is not my gospel, I'm about real life, about the power not the freedom it takes. Taking written notes, I have this tendency to demand correct ponctuation and to miss scyllables of important words. A transcript with the back in the fireplace and light coming out of my eyes, this night belongs to the fear of being a citizen, but when daytime comes, I end up trying to figure out what is essential to my life, and that doesn't include you, but invokes my need of abstractly imagining you reading me, and my desire to be chosen by one of you, one I don't really know yet. There's no lust in my life and I don't want to wait but live, leave, and learn what my condition permits and more if overcome and desire is the sign of the instant's signal. Today my heart is empty, a light strikes my weight, and I try to destroy the last memories that keep me on the ground. Even dogs are gathering and I'm on my own. This is the last dance, watch your steps, there's too much wind on the outside, hidden to cry, turn me off, cold sweat, far sight of a distant sky. They're doing business everyday and I close my eyes, meat is murder for trade, but I was on the other side, don't ever think twice, anything left to loose, and I can recall dreaming if you dreaming of anyme, here I stand, your sub man. I pass by the cobalt plant like stem cells offshore, and I spy for a living, and you were alone, outside, don't forgive the yankees, a dirty trick on the rise, the gravel was a land of former ashes; don't look back, there's an highway in front of you and you can't drive a car. A onetime messenger brings you here, along with Christopher Walken as the messiah, freedom is not happyness since I woke up before they went to bed.