The things that you say may not be to my taste, the words of a veteran. Now say to me ‘You’re included’. The things that I do may not be to your taste, the acts of an idiot. Now come to me, I’ll accept that.
I’d never come looking for trouble. I’m just exercising my right,
My right to an explanation, I've discarded the one I was given, It carried too little weight. We learned to rise above it, have seen the strings on the hands of the puppets that tell us how to behave.
And by the time the tides of the ocean had cradled me in their arms, God tried to kill me. I mind the time the winds of the country helped me run faster, I flew through the village.
That said I’d come looking for trouble, when I was exercising my right.
My right to an explanation, I've discarded the one I was given, It carried too little weight. We learned to rise above it, have seen the strings on the hands of the puppets that tell us how to behave.
Who wrote the letter? Who wrote it?
My right to an explanation, gale force come take me to another s ettlement far away. Our God exiled from heaven, banished like a drunk from his other, a picture torn from it’s frame.
Toccata et fugue en ré mineur, Cathédrale de Ratzeburg - Jean Sébastien Bach
Truly, one of the most beautiful things in the world, is to have written a letter in an attic lit only by candles whilst in a storm. The wind shaking the roof such that the fringes of your consciousness are aware of the movement, as at sea, the occasional gust of wind pushing through some gap of a window and making the flames keel over and darken before recovering again. Gah, the inner goth. This scares me.
I used to laugh at goths, indeed, sometimes I still do..
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I am the person with pain in his eyes, I am the person you never saw cry.