There is a rhythm in the breakdown. Not chaos. Anti-chaos. A deliberate unspooling of the spine. I twist my limbs into knots just to feel the tendons sing. Pop. Snap. The sound of a puppet cutting its own strings.
So I spit it out.
This body is a rental. This rage is a souvenir. mudvayne alien
Let me be the spore in your clean room. The wrong note in your lullaby. The knuckle in the clockwork. There is a rhythm in the breakdown
Blisters on my tongue from swallowing their sun. mudvayne alien
They ask: "Why the mask?" I ask: "Why your face?"