Come on, you’ve been away, and you’ve forgotten how we play
Well surely this extended time from presence has cast shadows upon my memory. Time has begun to bury us in the corridors of your repository. The upside to this is that the further it gets buried, the deeper I become sheltered in a beautiful place. A buried story is never gone, just taking its time to return to us. Perhaps a scent, carried by a cool lift of air, might creep in through an open window and blow the dust off some stale covers – Perhaps you’ll sneeze and knock over an old stack to uncover this treasure map; Perhaps you’ll tip your candles and lose it all in the fire. Whatever the case, whatever the happening, I know absence will make sure my senses quake come the day. Exploding with what serves you that soul flavor, the kind you need just a little more so you can savor, the kind that gets you swinging with some odd behavior to anyone that’s looking without the right cipher.
Empty your cup. Yes pour it all out now – How can you see what’s at the bottom, clearly, if you keep any of the past stagnant within.
You ever get to the last straw? You know the place at the end of your worldly perception; The zone where all your senses begin to mix like paint dipped water – What really is this place? It’s you, your soul, drunk, love, the breakdown of it all, the place where you really have fun – Where you start to really grip what it is you’ve been tasting, seeing, smelling, hearing, touching! Deep you reach for what the tides of the drink hold in the sand bar grooves of your essence, endless, you’re finding new ways to dance and sing! Yes, here you are, you will-o’-the-wisp; Doesn’t the wormwood give such a fair tint to life? We know none of this is fair – But we are spot on with the way we celebrate in this body of lies.
The sound of fluid running across your celadon – I laugh when they try to tell me that your words don’t exist,
She is quiet, but when you draw her out, she is an echo of familiarity reverberating against the bells. So I play the ancient winds rolling across cultivated fields, giving rise to cultured tunes; What is that sound? It’s us. Hear your vase has the perfect acoustics. In all we speak, life is born, linguistically shaped, giving matter form. It is no mistake that you feel colors, taste numbers, and see spells. This is us brought to water – And I believe if I drink enough of you, I’ll have all the spirit I could need, as long as you want to drink me too – Now birth your thaumaturgic song!
Drinking on the low spirits ain’t no good I tell you.
High energy fluid is what you’re looking to get into.