which twisted little side of my subconscious wnats to come out to play to day? I'm greyed, betrayed, splayed all over the widshield of my dreams it seems that I'm bereft if theft is the utilitiamte apreciatory gesture then the creative fester inside can't hide from teh light. It'll see all I can be and nothing more, before four in the morning comes around I'll be found warring with with myself over whether any of it's really worth all the trouble and time to make it sublime. Can I, or will I just still my sel f again? Fears for form and my style kept it inside for a while but now I know they were just lies to keep me silent. It's like this all the time, if you see my eyes crossed behind the wall in front you know now what I see.