when i get home i put on my rising suns.
i feel like a child from the house of the rising sun,
when im sitting on top of trains watching the rising sun.

the only way
im gonna get through
this memory
is to remember the truth.
you are the enemy.
if i want to know the
truth about it.
i can read it on
your face.
in picutres in space.
i am not the truth to you.
this we cant deny.
so all i have is john darnielle
and our memories.
drinking bottles of gin.
somewhere in time.
somewhere in sin.

ive got a smith and wesson strapped firmly to my hip
ive a sense of reason telling me i should quit
if i had an ideology i wouldnt be a mess
but insanity towards sanity is what makes us well equipped
im going home to albany
a place described as hell
if i can make it there
be damn sure that i can make it anywhere

radical disposition towards self-inductance. with a natural inclination to stretch the outfit of perception. personal and shared, through abstract thoughts about intentions towards self-preservation.

you are not a man
i wish to know.
by this i mean
complementary
in an uncomplimentary way.
that i knew you once
i wish to give
that knowledge back.
you are not a man
in spite of this
if you were to try
to be a man
when you respond to this
you would merely prove
juvenile.
regarding to this femme
you would claim
no previous knowledge
of the man you wish you were.
in time young juvenile
you will find
a man inside
praising all of this
as juvenile.