You sit in an empty room, friends have gone, you linger on, wishing for those with your desire for a party dead, you turn your head to the corner of the perpetual lurkers, the pained smirkers, reality deserters, wondering were we go so late, how great a party that never ends, we could be your best friends, we party till we are dead. You think this is funny, because you don’t realize I am serious, and that is not fun, but mere compulsion.
We are those who lurk below, where time goes fast and go slow.
We are those who can’t say no, and slowly it has begun to show.
If you want you can come to Hell, where we the consumers always dwell, it is not advised, and you would do well, to leave us where we rot…
We are no longer at a party, baby, we are merely ****ing crazy,
I am pour, pour, poor
I am more, more, more
Such a chore
I am sure
and a bore to maintain
This level of perpetual
we drink till we fall down, we get up and continue to crawl the ground, we stand with powder dust, we have lost all ability to trust our senses, we exist in chaotic hell, under poison spell, we eat our souls through bitter consumption of acid bile.
I smile with the power of intoxication and fixation on meditation on the idea of eventual death. I am the quest for lie die fry. I am a funny lie.