You capture my greys, and put them down in black and white.
I know you think in colour, like I do. I know you dream about the mambo kings, and about their songs of love.

So we're going to go to hell. And we're going to burn there. This I've heard a million times, from the anger and the left shoulder. Somehow, none of it matters anymore to me, because I'm blind to the peripheries.

But this is me, at my purest. This is me with a sackfull of cliches on my back and a blunt knife in my hand, walking towards my crisp paper sunset. Crash and burn, they call it. I say its clarity- because its my own virgin sunset, and it's as pure as I am.