Ribbon, tied up in bows, as it were a remedial fixation for my circumstances. Too many motors working in different ways, and it cant simply hold together and function like this. Fabric being ripped to shreds in the pummeling of gears, heat, oil and ferociousness. Let's rethink this, kid.
Saphire and crimson push through utter blackness and gives me some indication that more than nothing is going on below. Quiet, secret, sneaky. I know there's a plot and assassins, but it's far too mirky still. The tide has swept in and stayed faithful. I've lost all timber and wire to wrap into a shed, for fear of not having covering when this storm hits.
Go. Stop. It's circles for me, circles is all. One day, yes, emphatically. The next, a hard discouragement, a no, simply ignored. Footprints in the sand, then gone. I think I've gone somewhere, but I look back and I have no memory of this place; yet tiny pebbles remain in between my toes. So there is that, I have come quite a way, but to where, uncertain. All the lighthouses look the same. I want to be ready, no matter which storm or calm hits me. And I seem to have less and less to offer by means of attraction, as time robs me of my youth. Cursed you, steadfast clock. Tick away, pick away my bones.
"You're the voice that is swallowing my soul, soul, soul, soul, soul, soul, soul, soul...."
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