I thought I was clean. I thought I didn’t have a disease. I thought I wasn’t an addict or an insomniac. I thought disease two was gone. I thought depression was over. I dreamt of a ledge above the sea where I could never fall. I dreamt of never growing old. The months weren’t weeks and the days weren’t hours. I was free. I wept sweet undulating exultations. I screamed your name but nothing was yours. I made my reason free from you. I loved my friends. I still do. I wept. And I laughed. The car crashed into the sunrise, there was no blood, just a soft song, the radio had no static. I wanted to sing. But I didn’t know how to cry. It’s easier to stutter when your throat box is scarred. You dared me to watch a film. I did. It was nothing you’d like. You were probably asleep. I dared myself to hit a lick. It was okay. Stolen chords. Nothing worth keeping. The jewelry was stolen too. I wish I knew the junkie who robbed my grandmother. I’d offer him a home and then kick him out. Romanticism is phlegm. Whether it stays in your sinus cavity or your lungs is up to you. I’d rather it run. You know, to cough or breath. I dreamt of you. What day is it? The tide, some wine, a wake, odd fruit. Tell me a story. I’d rather piss the bed. It’s been awhile. I must be old enough to have 3 glasses of kool aide now. Acid made you dull and annoying. The Timothy Leary Flu. Toothpaste flavored cotton candy really tastes like cotton candy. Amnesia at the ring of a G#Major9.
tyler the creator - session
Listen to brian jonestown massacre or shove a rock up your stupid ass
consistently spewing drunken bullshit