you
my paranoid obsession
me
a vector in your direction
//
The night brings a consumptive melancholy
Its fingers caress my skin like
A scalpel
Surgically removing what remains
from daylight
A tired terror drives
this apathetic synthesis of
dissonance and relief
//
“Oh we flee the scene of our little crime
We feel so free
But the hounds of the law, they bite our heels
As we retreat
If I clean my rocket
We’ll go flying today
And we’ll hit the pockets
Of warm and crispy air”
-M83