Fast in front of the throng lined up killing action with want. Quick and dead by the draw of the moon parachuting its scythe into the battle. Easy...as the hasty shadow of imagination suffocates in it's dying fall. Chuckling at the danger that is me in your eyes, I unknowingly recriprocate along the sidewalk as side A begins to thump...
The feet: the beat. The flip the flop. Nervousness rings as a hi-hat on the offbeat. Thrown subconscious rhythm involuntary. Are you listening? Scoffing at the ease at which I ride through the bars won't reveal much for nothing. Being my music makes me yours and the cacophony yields to the power of what occurs. Only science could simplify what language tosses around it's spin cycle. The hook is our resolution in its moment of clarity which ends in the inquiry of verse and births again twice more before fading out in the discovering repetition of response from each lonely call.
