pages.

there are so many broken concepts, mapped out in erroneous charts and dialects, that it seems at the slightest exposure the world fall to ashes and rubble. my life is the cartographers hand, carefully mapping the outlines of what will be generally accepted as the world. as each page turns on the calendar of this season the wall edges ever closer. someday soon an apathetic hand will reach out and remove the last sheet, leaving nothing but a bare, whitewashed wall. this is when it will end. it will all be over. the game will be up, the home team still trailing by three as the score keeper tries to wipe the board clean with agile fingers. will it be quick enough? or will the moment be allowed to linger, penetrating from the lens of the eye and ingraining a lasting image on our minds? i want to wake up in the morning and escape this retched fruitless plain and take the gutter to the coastline, seeing where i wash out. are the welcoming tropical waters of the pacific, renewing and satisfying where i will find the cure i have been so emptily scanning the horizon for? maybe i will filter through to the eastern atlantic, condemned to bury my bones alongside a barren, grey shore. the pages are falling, and soon it will all be evident.


listening to -

this place is a prison (the postal service)
deep inside of you (third eye blind)
method acting (bright eyes)
the quite things that no one ever knows (brand new)
the boy who blocked his own shot (brand new)
play crack the sky (brand new)