At the end of May I reflect. What have I done, and what have I not?
Instruments are supreme beings.
Music is the heavenly creature of such coordination.
Reflections of love and life.
Martyrs are just numbers. Dead, forgotten, casted away.
Men are supreme beings.
Death is a gift to a country, to a home.
Blood mixed with sand to grace a mission, to immortalize a cause.
I'm on a bed. Far away from any sacrifices.
A failure. A dream.
Forming up theoretical aspirations, losing touch of reality.
Sex is a cure.
A kiss is a cure.
A song is a cure.
A joint is a cure.
Be ecstatic and forget about everybody else.
Reach an orgasm and kill your fantasies.
You're nothing but a lousy dreamer, a wounded soul hazed by a dream.
You're blackmailed by a text, flustered by a ringtone.
You're nothing but a bunch of hormones.
She's a cure, but not any cure.
She's a matter of mind.
She's an idealist entity, a materialist's wish.
She's philosophical magic.
At the end of May I reflect.
At the end of May I know, I fucked up.