i still act like i want to stay a black balloon on a string, sooner or later you'll come back down, never too far, and never get it right. some how i felt that the formula for becoming involved cost more than its worth to me. and once you shake hands with trouble you can never go back into the morning. always living chasing a frame of mind. a change of clothes still leaves a skeleton anyway, you can paint whats inside. living deaf, and dumb, and blind, you know where you have to go but a holy man dressed in black told me "you'll be fine, maybe its just the devil you're trying to hide", thats how it goes i suppose. my arms are aching for the distilled cold dark poison locked inside a wooden box and stretched anxiety, used to write my name over embarrassed eyelids,and a faithful midnight. don't go there again.