It spills over me

I'm whirlwinded, wallowing in highs. She sang swirlies, talks me over telescopic lines, I'm doing twirlies, this soundtrack never ceases, joy just abstract enough, satisfaction in that sensory vacuum, where everything heightens, this virtual stuff. It is tough. Yet it's the easiest thing, or so it's been, and still, it's hard, but "I don't mind hard work" and you'll agree. (I'm looking forward to our conversation, so we can end our purgatory.)

I've written lyrics for songs; didn't know my music though, and every note was wrong. Didn't know my strength, I'm sorry, I never lifted a finger. I let doubt fester; I let madness run rumour; I let simpletons shriek and drown out reason… and I let sadness linger.

I don't have time to gather arguments, rather be happy than right. I'm short on preamble, but I always fall back on the rhyming ramble. Amiability is a crutch; if you don't dare you don't win, and so I threw away my education because my mind was hollowing.

I didn't set out to break records for complexity - vexing with my book of photos, subversive against storytelling itself - though underlying everything, besides unlikelihood and improbability, is simple appreciation for the possibility of possibilities.