Start! "If I could live like a flower, wouldn't it be marvelous? I'd settle for living for someone else if a tomorrow could come, but with our hearts as empty as they are, drowning in paintings, let's escape to that godless church" you said, and I was enthralled with the language used to accentuate our memories of the landscape. Nostalgia as a point of view can only lead one to long without gain. Your eyes may hold all I crave, but at full capacity how can I reach in to take what's mine? In a filthy compromise, shouting at all that I spy…but can't touch. Does it still make you nauseous each day? Did you ever get that big dog you had dreamed of? Can you clutch it or those film reels close now or has the pleasure of denial run out? Isn't it strange how three people from a place half a world away could make me embrace the heart and emotion I own? Long live the cabs that drive me back home. And though I don't understand what you say, your heart's meaning still reaches me and it's worth even more than you know, so thanks for it.

But still how can I hope to be respected if I live like that flower? Bud and die and bud again. In this cycle what does full potential mean? If I find it will I stop there or keep dreaming? If fulfillment indicates closure, but I'm still left open, what then? Do I keep creating these fires that extinguish each other again? The horizon's equidistant no matter where you stand. Movement hasn't started and I've three weeks left to finish this. And as "first" was "first" and "only", by extension it's also "last". So push one more work out in the hopes it will all work out. If I climb my way up Shiver Road every single morning to Central without a thought in my mind will it arrive when I reach the summit? If applause is a measure of gratitude but everyone's silent, what then? Do I keep creating these fires that extinguish each other again? The horizon always beckons, but here I stand. Can we go back to the start before this all fell apart? If we stop now to pick up what's cracked we can't fix it, but there's value in that - just to take what you get knowing full well it could disappear in an instant. In your head you proclaim "though two choices remain: let anxiety reign or leave your life up to blind fate, I will fight…or will I?"

The traffic inches ahead. It's rush hour on a cloverleaf interchange. Its geometry stretching, leading each way, but never enabling its cargo to proceed. Frozen gears for millennia. Exhaust through the air vents. Breathe on repeat forever. Or as it seems like from one lane to another. I can relieve my stress at 0 miles per hour. Don't mess with what you can't compete with. Depository buildings leave with one-million dollar contents. Access which way? Compounding history. Ixnay on the ightray. Frozen gears for millennia. A cyclic story on repeat forever. Or as it seems like from one stream to another. I can relieve my stress at 550 miles per hour, but I can't evade; what's coming's coming anyway, and I'm cement timidly standing here. (Though you can choose to not stand at all) Above the earth. Floating high in the sky like an abandoned balloon, bracing for the pop. It's comfortable here, encompassed in cirrus. No more noise from the surface or rejected motives. I've damaged what I know I can't repay. Embarked on something I may not embrace. But I've found a place, somewhere to be content. (No more gears, in the troposphere) I've found a place, somewhere to be content. (No more motors, just thin oxygen) I've found somewhere to be content.

Ke zeln semi sa kren, va atog semi betef abora kecio. Sa raouln ba vasel el kolo. Ke sel, vaselte krencio. Sa ne aborag sel mina - círg ba sa pou. Ke zeln semi sa kren el panibya kren-vaderai anet vaselte alobini.

Look at the gridwork squares as if they're spreadsheet charts. Little houses drilled and burrowed in our hearts. This shallow box is my abode, only I own the contents of it. We built these walls to hold the squalor out, but they don't help at all. Squeezing prime real estate into violent overdrive, pack these buyers tight into waiting stalls. Talk about shelter and location and how everybody wants somewhere. These days all I want is "somewhere" to be nowhere near me at all. It's not a contemporary movement. We're all living in perpetual standstill, but even then almost no one seems to notice…either that or no one really cares. Migrating migraine miles mandating maddening misery as samples from the shelf fall into our open mouths. Levittown levities looming lustily, leasing to lethargic larvae. When it's all you know you can't feel guilty 'bout missing out. It's not a contemporary movement. We're all living in perpetual standstill, but even then almost no one seems to notice…that or no one wants to make repairs. I long for trees again. I long for winding roads on hillsides. I long for terrain that shapes the landscape, 'cause all that I've found in this endless sea of rooftops is the dour reversal I could sure live without. The longtime residents of these parts say it sure looked nicer just a decade ago, before developers came in and stole all the soul. I guess even the wastelands and destitute plains seemed more homey than gated community codes with spurious namesakes nobody knows outside their own. The jejune concrete and brickwork forever encroach, every crevice the target for recent "advancements". Say goodbye to home. You can drive by for hours and not know that you've moved. The surroundings merge with your car like a virus - a contagious and terminal one that spread like a plague from sea to shining sea. The only prophecy I see these prophets see is profit, and you can't just rise up or lay lives down to get it to change overnight. The system rests calmly, a half-asleep giant that raises the stress of every being that forms it like a parasite. My transport's a hearse and I'm there but I'm not the one driving it. This ain't a contemporary movement. We're all living in perpetual standstill and either no one notices or they're comfortable lying.

Our fires extinguish each other again… If I could live like a flower, wouldn't it be marvelous…? The horizon always beckons, but here I stand… Find a place, somewhere to be content… I wish midnight could stay forever. I wish midnight could stay forever. I wish midnight could stay forever. I wish midnight could stay forever, but alas. This ain't a contemporary movement. You're living in perpetual standstill. But even then, you never seem to notice most of it's only of your own accord. This ain't a contemporary movement. You're living in perpetual standstill. But even then, you never seem to notice most of it's only of your own accord. Stop.