Dredging up crust from the earth, small and occasional foal. My closeness to galling you hurts listlessly and alone. Staking it all on forlorn reasons, forgone conclusions. My dentist, he sized my teeth up, gave me a plate to push out my lower row. I wore it for two years then stopped. My teeth went back to the way they were. I forget why I even thought of that idea, the memory escapes me, I really strain to recall.
Track Name: crushing 17 eyeballs stacked up neatly in a row beneath my boot without missing any of them
Resting in the decadent shadow of a perfunctory monument (my grimace analogous to the way the sweat and grime that cakes me is insoluble), rising in a way that should be unpalatable to the field of vision of any living thing, I gained the first inkling of what would befall me. The transcendence of your eyes in order to be able to fathom the depth of their presence was first described to me by my progenitor, who researched with a fatal lack of hesitance. She documented furiously in eldritch chicken-scratch the first step to removing the layer that bulwarks your retina: an extraneous section of iris. The method is crushing 17 eyeballs stacked up neatly in a row beneath your boot without missing any of them. The monstrosities cling to the tower up to the vanishing point where it swallows the sky and all of them speaking to me by entering my brain and all clamouring to be heard at the same time. Language that I understand but also don't, its easier to visually transcribe. The only apparently clear thing is that they want me to climb. Stepping furtively towards the crevasse through which the tower is spewing upward, my pace was slowing down and speeding up at the same time and every football footfall football footfall was being made redundant. Tarmac, mud, riverbed, gravel, sinewy flesh floors breaking open to all layers of stability, continuing to destroy and repurpose at random until I stop trying anything.
Track Name: 22 (featuring Maple Syrup)
Both my toes are dressed to heal their wounds. It's good to get something out of the way so soon. It feels so strange that I deteriorate, in a way it feels like life will keep getting even more great. In a world where nothing goes wrong I won't have to look up when you'll open the stores. I look forward to your letters telling me I'm wrong. Cause everyone exists inside a steel book. My life is getting further away the more I think about the words I wish I'd thought to say. With a past you start to feel bad at all times. Feelings are detrimental to human beings' survival. In a world where nothing goes wrong I won't have to ask you when you open the stores.