Mindless paper.

I wrote this a couple of years ago, so I was wondering whether it will be a good effort to carrying on writing this particular mindless paper. Any criticism of any form is welcomed.

I started this when I was 15-16.I stopped when I was 19-20 because I had to change to another project of mine.

Just building up a "new" philosophy in Greek.

"In questioning, always withstanding. In truth, always without [it]"

The date is 15th of November 2007?an insignificant calendar number for all the humans?a significant day for moi. Even though it is merely a picture, slowly digested by time and space, a leaf drifting away into its own shade of Sad Season, for Me it is?the beginning and the ending of Tricycle; Skepto que, Skepto qui, Skepto quo. An explosive agenda, which ought to be the symbolic resemblance of this particular moment, a glorious one to be modest.

It has been approximately 20 years of being one with the dead, those whose corpses frantically lie below the earth, below the ground? Realistically, I have had to undergo the physical and psychological journey of this endless nebulous; one trip where languages and numbers are as small as the initial cell of motion. Dilemmas, taboos, facts, enigmas were "samples", were the provocateurs of my own downfall?A summer gesture with cold winds blocking my face, by blowing it away. Definitely signs of inferiority and irrationality. Until one day again, questions were never too much, just never enough.

I kept wondering that if I was If I was "in" the root of void, what would the basis of my existence, my ego be of? Would I be more alive or more dead?

?Yet, I am not alive because I am already dead, I cannot die because I cannot die again. I am neither in life neither in death. I am "just"; Gnostic of my own agnosticism. One who will die in pride, rather to live in shame. In essence, I am an abstract in doubt.

Corrupted, Mind

Whether it was apropos or not, I am consciously saying that I am a "thought". One "little god" that was isolated into this amnesia of his own essence and fundamental nature. A loss of memory, a total black, which I have to endure the turmoil and bewilderment in order to redeem my soul and salvage the bond with the ataraxia, the Goddess of every energy and verve.

Just a thought inside a deck of cards where each side I am presented with has a new figure, a new tasl. Yet the apocalypse of each distinctive card on the table, the Game that is, is like an old sadistic and masochist playground? a moment of poker, a strategic and manipulative chess where the man has to get burned and be burned, get respect and be respected: in order to manifest his own fire, in order to become a true, pragmatic and authentic man and not just an adherent of a shadow clone.

Teragasa my young ones?.when the instinct is never wrong?when the mind is never wrong.

? And as I escaped from my mother's womb, I started breathing the fresh air of being a youngster slacker, blazing all day under the dark psychedelic sky and paying tribute to Miss Fate, Miss Destiny and Miss Luck. Since their majesties interfered with the forthcoming movement of life, compromising with the judgement of death, all in old fashion; holding equally hands with both of them, a magnificent escape I say!

Considering the high and low possibilities of being into vision, alongside with that massive chain of creation and destruction, the gigantic mechanism of raining blood (war), my survival against the odds and Gods, was praised as a newborn prodigy?praised by I, Baptist Ioannis, the one and only?Whether I am a charismatic and talented hybrid or the decoration belongs to my thoughts alone, it is a minor sceptical attribution and a mindless, senseless recognition.

?What matters is the transcendence of what is "I" with the apathy of critique, justification, radicalism. Let us roll.
With my old friend -his name Jack Daniels- I used to vision how it would be to blow the smoke tediously slow; deriving upwards as a resurrected Phoenix each time there would be a puff, whilst allowing its heir of CO2 to tease viciously those lungs of mine. After all, am I not just a moment of Ice Age?"

---------- Post added 11-28-2009 at 11:38 PM ----------

The above is the other part, that I will somehow in the future link it up with the one the introduction of my first project. Enjoy reading one more shite.

The story was unfolded, the chronicle was foretold, the anecdote was aforesaid; the legacy of the God's graveyard. One cemetery where there were no names and no norms, only eccentric and idiosyncratic figures?And so the gravestones were pitched black, decayed and sniffed of coke and cocaine. The warring ego was baptized and praised as protagonist. He was cold-blooded and a sadistic acquaintance of "solus amen", a truth that was the only rightful one to spilt blood and to live with it as a habit.

Dry as a bone and drowned as a rat, the pre-sapient was soaking for revenge, dripping its enigmatic sunrise down on his shoulder?the ground in which he was privileged to inhale the air of fatality. A crack of dawn which had no past, no present and no future?The sequence of yesterday, today and tomorrow had been informed that from this time and on, time would be in frigidity, written down by the same old judge?The unalterable negotiator that dropped miraculously one teardrop, one last progeny; inherited as an uninterrupted cell of nature's glass of discretion?"A reflection of time, an allegory of mine" resonated dissonantly?

The hurricane heavily snatched the strings of moral fibre, the only meaning that was there?the only cognition?the only intuition?the only reminisce?the only memory to hold into?The demon was brought to life though his vision was pre-decided to be blind. His senses were the "watch-dog" for signs of hatred, melancholy, brutality whereas his logic and reasoning had escaped provisionally; a runaway from "the judge" of all living and dead beings. Despite having his utter rationale as a most-wanted fugitive, his thoughts strived to wage war alone, but they were too feeble to stand in their own ground and thus they were crucified by the hand, judge's hand?

The airstreams transmitted the sound of "vision of the blind, vision of the blind"?The streets of death were empty, defaced and corrupted by their own stains, draught and enlightenment. Silence was the pretentious immorality in this parade of distorted crosses, reminding the desolated psyches that the unspoken law of ceteris paribus was the only concept in existence, in this dimension to say the least?The demon arrived on the scene whilst his bewilderment, disorientation and mystification seemed to be the electric spiky worm on his spinal chord?The day was indeed cold, harsh and deviant and the clouds, for a blink of an eye, appeared to be petrified by the sunlight and its army of retaliators.

The hills were like prying crows, waiting for something to happen in front of them. As the air was bending to suffocate and disrupt the inhalation of sand-plants, pack of wolves were awaken from their lengthy, traumatic and wearisome daydream, all standing out as deprived nightmares and distorted visionaries. Footsteps echoed within the homeland and their rhythmic upsurge was disseminated along by the morning breeze. A dark figure appeared out of nowhere riding a ruthless, bleaching pigment horse, as if time was frozen for a sudden death and permitted a messianic warlord to intrude the laws and rules of nature and cross the threshold of civilisation. And like an esoteric greed of western gene scanning selfishly the verse of its own dictator, the pugilist, having his energy purified by his own misdemeanour resolve, marched divinely to seek the truth behind his breeding. And as moment was like a vein of an incubus, the gentle wind blew away the mind, leaving the legend to recall a forgotten dialogue that came without knocking his consciousness, without waiting nor wanting an approve, the dialogue truly came this time;

Demonic: It is one of those days where my mind is twisting, renovating its self to a tornado, raising the human dirt, having handcuffs to morality, one of those bloody days.

Angel: And why do you even dare to question your beliefs, why do you have the nerve to request for salvation and redemption. What is your diabolical schema behind all of this, under your virtuous skin?

Demonic: I might be sinister in my own thoughts, I might be the prophecy of Hell, I might be merciless when I act, selfish in the deeds, but I do have the right, I do have the prerogative to have the insight to understand.

Angel: And who gives you this so-called "legitimacy" to stipulate on what is your right and what it is not?

Demonic: So I say the reason of;

There are moments like this,
Where the gun is all I have
There are moments like this,
Where the knife mocks generosity
To have a fellow by your side,
It is a one-way pattern to commit suicide

The faces fail to change the story,
I laugh back, dream it was another glory
I want to run away and see the wonders of life
Yet again, the trigger is still there
Waiting for the general to give the order without pain

I close my eyes while having no vision
The heavens of the will have no decision
I imagine what it was to be a child of reasoning
Would give my everything, just for a little treason

At least back then, purity was the prominent insight
No need for harassment or another lie
The daily season would be a weather of grey
You might call me gay, oh well, time to play
And so I write this song, to bring a love intuition
I would like to end my life, and call it a reason

Angelic: The clock is ticking my old fellow and eternal foe, I say wake up worm and test your eyesight. Crush those dummies and their documents. Challenge their truths, mortify their symbolic egos, the ones of the many, the ones of the same. I saw your shade and it was flicking like a candle, I wanted to tell you that your vision is around you. Though the last pages are missing, you will not await for a prosecution. We are all missing into doubt, but we are all aiming for the next round. The soul might be mutilated, the balls might be castrated, but the glorious sun will always rise.

Demonic: I want live without an edge, because edge itself is life and death. I sweat as if there is a waterfall of crime and I take a sky-dive into the rainforest to be an ordinary human, one of a kind. Sometimes I yell in despair for more, I receive no more than less, I become a fool and magically I forget the rest. They claim eight hours a day in order to be a productive and rational entrepreneur, I refuse sir, I prefer to mind-walk instead. I know I will die in 0 and none, but have I committed a crime? Just saying, because the graveyard is already behind.

There is this old joker that laughed at me one day and told me that the dilemma is whether the engine can or cannot roam, because no toll, no roll. I felt like a cockroach eager to be smashed under the shade of the blackest sun. How much longer will I endure those patronising trumpets calling for God to send me back to the oven? Even the smoke out of it, has betrayed me. I am all alone, neither with God or Lucifer. I see that I am doomed in not changing the past, only repeating the past but at the end of the day, who are you to judge? Spare me a moment and get off my back.

Angelic: Your eyesight is still blind, whilst your intellectuality is underneath the solar eclipse, engraved in seal of 100 arrows. Take that misery and deception, pick up the bow and send sky-high the juvenile crows, wipe out the colour that corrodes your psyche like acid. Let those humans have their fire to rave, in the end, their tears and gas masks will be the death's wish in hail.

Demonic: Yet it seems that tyrant returns and speaks of his scope, he speaks of his critic. Through education, he has raped the seeds of democracy. I wonder who has rallied the future of discrepancy and as I ask the question twice, no voice dares to be alive. I head-bang to smooth the historical hoodwink, take some weed, some hash to ease that mind blink. Even knowledge and experience seem a scapegoat to a master-slave pyramid, even thinking is a road to supremacy. I am sick and tired of this atrocity; I neither want to be a man to be stared on nor a bug to be squashed on. Surprisingly I see my self in the reflection of others; I see that cancer that withstands its greatest admirer. My mind might be the bond for insight and halo light, yet how do I gain individuality, if serving the others is a one hell of a ride?

Angelic: I might be one with the human race and I know I cannot stand out, but in my mind I am one with my God, a proud man, and I say it with even my greasy balls, I say it out loud. Just like a dull and sinning rose is nature's gift to heaven and so my voice is hell's upheaval. At least I am not a monochrome that incite neither danger nor terror on those upright molecules, at least I am not the blackest ki contaminated in existence.

Yet, I will be exposed through words and sounds, through history and religious ceremonies. I am too a symbol of art just like you epitomize the honour of being brought up without the will to have a gun. The name of art has fluid movements, blessed with deviant manoeuvres. The name of art is pure insomnia and stomach butterflies. It may not have its soldiers or prophets of a revolution heart, but it holds genuinely minds for a grand attack Predominantly, I move on the line and always grip the good old times. I guess I am a dominatrix of young minds. What are you if not a butterfly of crime?

Demonic: I am a martyr of this 21th century called life. It is drowned by dust of data and propaganda lies. I attempted to have out my butterfly wings all night, expect to indulge in a psychedelic, glorious sight. Yet, I only find out that the rainbow of light masks the true colour of liberty, for all man kind's sake of right.

I just want to be a lovely rain on someone's back, I just want to be loved and be one with dark. I want to rise from the burning ashes, to kill the self-righteous insects. Their fashion proclaims that justice is unflawed, but a lot of flames will be gone.

I remember once, in my own history of the past, that the name of art was an earthly breed, these days though it is drilled a hundred miles in the ground, dragged by human needs.

Sometimes I prefer to roll and smoke even though I know, that this industrialized paper of gore, becomes a controversy, to some a God. Its soggy tobacco inside a plastic bag, has written over and over that it kills but for some reason the pain never lasts. The reason I do it is to have that threat in my lugs, so I never forget that I was forever not one with the mass. I admire the danger in my hands; I lust for that desire to simply by-pass.

Angelic: Why do you not me take me as your idol for one instance? Instead of having a wake-up call, crows and fierce laws, those illusions that are called forth, sadly they bring the modest mind, a few millions years back, back into the north.

A relief from the rollie is a humane hallucination into the holy,
It is a mud of dirty blood, an irreligious act.
Is there really a connection between my words now and your mindless revelation?

I recall that when I was young, there was somewhere around a tornado of an indestructible heart. My clothes might have been ripped apart, the hat might have been old as a laugh, those rotten shoes might have been gone along with their hospitable rat, but the colour was bright and the weather was blue, it seems sometimes a story completely untrue.

These modern days though, life has movies of. You click play and the screen becomes empty. Cables are half-eaten, plugs wanted to be on top of your own ground. You click pause, there is no movement, ice is your only sound. Humans, like electrons and neutrons have a motion, a tragedy and just like them you persevere to click stop, let life be death, ending it wordlessly.

Yet, watch for one more time the children infected by a scientific gas of a sinister mastermind. Observe the grey perfect circle, in which they play and roar whilst child molesters rewind and rewind the tape, to expose those democratic prisons of irony.

They said that philosophical endings are the asylum for twisted psychos,
Na?ve words, harder and harder for them to swallow. Each channel you flip and turn, you see propaganda, utterly a burn.

Even when you rent a couple of movies.porn, you are aware it is the "in"
Address is sex and violence, flesh and chains and the post code, or should I say, the indication has always been there.

It smells like a god-forbidden footstep, no substance at it at all
You feel maturity and paid off melancholy
Is that realistically, a good ramble to walk on?

A bit under the weather you are now eh?

Demonic: I am not going to lie, not yet though, pretend that I have travelled the whole world. I haven't visited the black blue oceans neither the ecstatic land of ego consciousness. Life for me is live low, think high, that is the motto in the line and like a dolphin in the wrong sea, I begin to wonder why.

You might have guessed my precious dog that my song is for life
Or am I playing with your mind, your own disguise?
Is it over yet or is this interrogation condemned to doom?
I should not let you go; instead I will let you wonder in your own gloom.
I am not the one to say, whether you should begin to act as "insane"
However, willing to let your dogma sunk into me that straight? In reality, I am not the one to say

But I am here in order to write, while you devour that dark, dark sunlight
I continue to breath and kick it in, I want to live out and obliterate that twilight, let me be. I don't allow you to sing my song right, unless you surely have some pride.

Some angels, unlike your self, thought I should have died
Next to the grave you all had already decide. You though, thought I had no voice to speak with, I mock your enlightenment even it means beating you with the same old stick. I am still fully loaded, a desperanto, I am still fire's breed a holy putano.

So I will leave those bones to be tortured and swell,
And tell those homies of yours, that I wish them to be well
Because I will be spilling shampagne in the homeless daylight
And fill the jury with coins and pennies of all size

On the grounds that the 11th Hour of Samatarian will come,
It leaves me cold and heart-broken, knowing that your preaches never last. I admit that I have no lungs, no feet, no soul, but somehow I still know

---------- Post added 11-28-2009 at 11:55 PM ----------

This one is another part that I will somehow in the future link it up with the one the introduction of my first project. Enjoy reading one more shite.

The story was unfolded, the chronicle was foretold, the anecdote was aforesaid; the legacy of the God's graveyard. One cemetery where there were no names and no norms, only eccentric and idiosyncratic figures?And so the gravestones were pitched black, decayed and sniffed of coke and cocaine. The warring ego was baptized and praised as protagonist. He was cold-blooded and a sadistic acquaintance of "solus amen", a truth that was the only rightful one to spilt blood and to live with it as a habit.

Dry as a bone and drowned as a rat, the pre-sapient was soaking for revenge, dripping its enigmatic sunrise down on his shoulder?the ground in which he was privileged to inhale the air of fatality. A crack of dawn which had no past, no present and no future?The sequence of yesterday, today and tomorrow had been informed that from this time and on, time would be in frigidity, written down by the same old judge?The unalterable negotiator that dropped miraculously one teardrop, one last progeny; inherited as an uninterrupted cell of nature's glass of discretion?"A reflection of time, an allegory of mine" resonated dissonantly?

The hurricane heavily snatched the strings of moral fibre, the only meaning that was there?the only cognition?the only intuition?the only reminisce?the only memory to hold into?The demon was brought to life though his vision was pre-decided to be blind. His senses were the "watch-dog" for signs of hatred, melancholy, brutality whereas his logic and reasoning had escaped provisionally; a runaway from "the judge" of all living and dead beings. Despite having his utter rationale as a most-wanted fugitive, his thoughts strived to wage war alone, but they were too feeble to stand in their own ground and thus they were crucified by the hand, judge's hand?

The airstreams transmitted the sound of "vision of the blind, vision of the blind"?The streets of death were empty, defaced and corrupted by their own stains, draught and enlightenment. Silence was the pretentious immorality in this parade of distorted crosses, reminding the desolated psyches that the unspoken law of ceteris paribus was the only concept in existence, in this dimension to say the least?The demon arrived on the scene whilst his bewilderment, disorientation and mystification seemed to be the electric spiky worm on his spinal chord?The day was indeed cold, harsh and deviant and the clouds, for a blink of an eye, appeared to be petrified by the sunlight and its army of retaliators.

The hills were like prying crows, waiting for something to happen in front of them. As the air was bending to suffocate and disrupt the inhalation of sand-plants, pack of wolves were awaken from their lengthy, traumatic and wearisome daydream, all standing out as deprived nightmares and distorted visionaries. Footsteps echoed within the homeland and their rhythmic upsurge was disseminated along by the morning breeze. A dark figure appeared out of nowhere riding a ruthless, bleaching pigment horse, as if time was frozen for a sudden death and permitted a messianic warlord to intrude the laws and rules of nature and cross the threshold of civilisation. And like an esoteric greed of western gene scanning selfishly the verse of its own dictator, the pugilist, having his energy purified by his own misdemeanour resolve, marched divinely to seek the truth behind his breeding. And as moment was like a vein of an incubus, the gentle wind blew away the mind, leaving the legend to recall a forgotten dialogue that came without knocking his consciousness, without waiting nor wanting an approve, the dialogue truly came this time;

Demonic: It is one of those days where my mind is twisting, renovating its self to a tornado, raising the human dirt, having handcuffs to morality, one of those bloody days.

Angel: And why do you even dare to question your beliefs, why do you have the nerve to request for salvation and redemption. What is your diabolical schema behind all of this, under your virtuous skin?

Demonic: I might be sinister in my own thoughts, I might be the prophecy of Hell, I might be merciless when I act, selfish in the deeds, but I do have the right, I do have the prerogative to have the insight to understand.

Angel: And who gives you this so-called "legitimacy" to stipulate on what is your right and what it is not?

Demonic: So I say the reason of;

There are moments like this,
Where the gun is all I have
There are moments like this,
Where the knife mocks generosity
To have a fellow by your side,
It is a one-way pattern to commit suicide

The faces fail to change the story,
I laugh back, dream it was another glory
I want to run away and see the wonders of life
Yet again, the trigger is still there
Waiting for the general to give the order without pain

I close my eyes while having no vision
The heavens of the will have no decision
I imagine what it was to be a child of reasoning
Would give my everything, just for a little treason

At least back then, purity was the prominent insight
No need for harassment or another lie
The daily season would be a weather of grey
You might call me gay, oh well, time to play
And so I write this song, to bring a love intuition
I would like to end my life, and call it a reason

Angelic: The clock is ticking my old fellow and eternal foe, I say wake up worm and test your eyesight. Crush those dummies and their documents. Challenge their truths, mortify their symbolic egos, the ones of the many, the ones of the same. I saw your shade and it was flicking like a candle, I wanted to tell you that your vision is around you. Though the last pages are missing, you will not await for a prosecution. We are all missing into doubt, but we are all aiming for the next round. The soul might be mutilated, the balls might be castrated, but the glorious sun will always rise.

Demonic: I want live without an edge, because edge itself is life and death. I sweat as if there is a waterfall of crime and I take a sky-dive into the rainforest to be an ordinary human, one of a kind. Sometimes I yell in despair for more, I receive no more than less, I become a fool and magically I forget the rest. They claim eight hours a day in order to be a productive and rational entrepreneur, I refuse sir, I prefer to mind-walk instead. I know I will die in 0 and none, but have I committed a crime? Just saying, because the graveyard is already behind.

There is this old joker that laughed at me one day and told me that the dilemma is whether the engine can or cannot roam, because no toll, no roll. I felt like a cockroach eager to be smashed under the shade of the blackest sun. How much longer will I endure those patronising trumpets calling for God to send me back to the oven? Even the smoke out of it, has betrayed me. I am all alone, neither with God or Lucifer. I see that I am doomed in not changing the past, only repeating the past but at the end of the day, who are you to judge? Spare me a moment and get off my back.

Angelic: Your eyesight is still blind, whilst your intellectuality is underneath the solar eclipse, engraved in seal of 100 arrows. Take that misery and deception, pick up the bow and send sky-high the juvenile crows, wipe out the colour that corrodes your psyche like acid. Let those humans have their fire to rave, in the end, their tears and gas masks will be the death's wish in hail.

Demonic: Yet it seems that tyrant returns and speaks of his scope, he speaks of his critic. Through education, he has raped the seeds of democracy. I wonder who has rallied the future of discrepancy and as I ask the question twice, no voice dares to be alive. I head-bang to smooth the historical hoodwink, take some weed, some hash to ease that mind blink. Even knowledge and experience seem a scapegoat to a master-slave pyramid, even thinking is a road to supremacy. I am sick and tired of this atrocity; I neither want to be a man to be stared on nor a bug to be squashed on. Surprisingly I see my self in the reflection of others; I see that cancer that withstands its greatest admirer. My mind might be the bond for insight and halo light, yet how do I gain individuality, if serving the others is a one hell of a ride?

Angelic: I might be one with the human race and I know I cannot stand out, but in my mind I am one with my God, a proud man, and I say it with even my greasy balls, I say it out loud. Just like a dull and sinning rose is nature's gift to heaven and so my voice is hell's upheaval. At least I am not a monochrome that incite neither danger nor terror on those upright molecules, at least I am not the blackest ki contaminated in existence.

Yet, I will be exposed through words and sounds, through history and religious ceremonies. I am too a symbol of art just like you epitomize the honour of being brought up without the will to have a gun. The name of art has fluid movements, blessed with deviant manoeuvres. The name of art is pure insomnia and stomach butterflies. It may not have its soldiers or prophets of a revolution heart, but it holds genuinely minds for a grand attack Predominantly, I move on the line and always grip the good old times. I guess I am a dominatrix of young minds. What are you if not a butterfly of crime?

Demonic: I am a martyr of this 21th century called life. It is drowned by dust of data and propaganda lies. I attempted to have out my butterfly wings all night, expect to indulge in a psychedelic, glorious sight. Yet, I only find out that the rainbow of light masks the true colour of liberty, for all man kind's sake of right.

I just want to be a lovely rain on someone's back, I just want to be loved and be one with dark. I want to rise from the burning ashes, to kill the self-righteous insects. Their fashion proclaims that justice is unflawed, but a lot of flames will be gone.

I remember once, in my own history of the past, that the name of art was an earthly breed, these days though it is drilled a hundred miles in the ground, dragged by human needs.

Sometimes I prefer to roll and smoke even though I know, that this industrialized paper of gore, becomes a controversy, to some a God. Its soggy tobacco inside a plastic bag, has written over and over that it kills but for some reason the pain never lasts. The reason I do it is to have that threat in my lugs, so I never forget that I was forever not one with the mass. I admire the danger in my hands; I lust for that desire to simply by-pass.

Angelic: Why do you not me take me as your idol for one instance? Instead of having a wake-up call, crows and fierce laws, those illusions that are called forth, sadly they bring the modest mind, a few millions years back, back into the north.

A relief from the rollie is a humane hallucination into the holy,
It is a mud of dirty blood, an irreligious act.
Is there really a connection between my words now and your mindless revelation?

I recall that when I was young, there was somewhere around a tornado of an indestructible heart. My clothes might have been ripped apart, the hat might have been old as a laugh, those rotten shoes might have been gone along with their hospitable rat, but the colour was bright and the weather was blue, it seems sometimes a story completely untrue.

These modern days though, life has movies of. You click play and the screen becomes empty. Cables are half-eaten, plugs wanted to be on top of your own ground. You click pause, there is no movement, ice is your only sound. Humans, like electrons and neutrons have a motion, a tragedy and just like them you persevere to click stop, let life be death, ending it wordlessly.

Yet, watch for one more time the children infected by a scientific gas of a sinister mastermind. Observe the grey perfect circle, in which they play and roar whilst child molesters rewind and rewind the tape, to expose those democratic prisons of irony.

They said that philosophical endings are the asylum for twisted psychos,
Na?ve words, harder and harder for them to swallow. Each channel you flip and turn, you see propaganda, utterly a burn.

Even when you rent a couple of movies.porn, you are aware it is the "in"
Address is sex and violence, flesh and chains and the post code, or should I say, the indication has always been there.

It smells like a god-forbidden footstep, no substance at it at all
You feel maturity and paid off melancholy
Is that realistically, a good ramble to walk on?

A bit under the weather you are now eh?

Demonic: I am not going to lie, not yet though, pretend that I have travelled the whole world. I haven't visited the black blue oceans neither the ecstatic land of ego consciousness. Life for me is live low, think high, that is the motto in the line and like a dolphin in the wrong sea, I begin to wonder why.

You might have guessed my precious dog that my song is for life
Or am I playing with your mind, your own disguise?
Is it over yet or is this interrogation condemned to doom?
I should not let you go; instead I will let you wonder in your own gloom.
I am not the one to say, whether you should begin to act as "insane"
However, willing to let your dogma sunk into me that straight? In reality, I am not the one to say

But I am here in order to write, while you devour that dark, dark sunlight
I continue to breath and kick it in, I want to live out and obliterate that twilight, let me be. I don't allow you to sing my song right, unless you surely have some pride.

Some angels, unlike your self, thought I should have died
Next to the grave you all had already decide. You though, thought I had no voice to speak with, I mock your enlightenment even it means beating you with the same old stick. I am still fully loaded, a desperanto, I am still fire's breed a holy putano.

So I will leave those bones to be tortured and swell,
And tell those homies of yours, that I wish them to be well
Because I will be spilling shampagne in the homeless daylight
And fill the jury with coins and pennies of all size

On the grounds that the 11th Hour of Samatarian will come,
It leaves me cold and heart-broken, knowing that your preaches never last. I admit that I have no lungs, no feet, no soul, but somehow I still know