bottle up that royal red exhale bending over backwards lampposts in a ghost town gale, spoken softly over the end of the world, hiding in between my friends conversations with an empty audience in an echo chamber fading out into the cool dark cell, time rolls away with a rip tide current, navigating the swells that you know arent worth it, fixed my glare on the end of a sentence trailing off. it doesnt mean much to me, but im trying to keep today in the palm of my hand next to the shivered distilled winter that spells out the end in me once again, its a paradox of gray that whispers today--my blue blooded curse. "this is the place where dead men talk to all the pretty nurses", everything becomes a matter of when. flaming suns spiral and retreat, park benchs arms seemed warm to me, red baloons and a suicide trap, drifting off inside a somber melody, and today seems like a memory i've been before. cause it becomes "all about taking the easy way out of here, i suppose".