The story I'm going to tell, is not my story.
It is the story of someone, who is telling a story which is very similar to his own.
The dream I will remember, won't be mine.
It's the dream of someone who remembers a dream, that is very similar to his own.
I think of stories I like to make stories.
To tell them. I know this must sound like the dream of little Iasonas. What will he be when he grows up.
When I wake up, it'll happen again.
It'll start all over...
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Good weather for airstrikes
I slide forward through my head I think half way backwards see myself sing the anthem we wrote together. We had a dream we had everything we rode to the end of the world we rode searching climbed skyscrapers which later exploded. The peace was gone balance leaks out I fall down slide forward through my head. I always return to the same place total silence no answer (but)