Five minutes in and I feel the collision of desire and death, the kind that clings to you, a sticky sense that it all leads to an ending of a beginning. All those tucked away reckless notions of self-destruction they peak their dyed heads out to whisper at you, fabricating the realm of fuckwits and faerie tales. I want a piece of dark chocolate to go with your next beautiful misstep in judgment? Tripping and falling with daisy chains wrapped about each ankle, you pull me along into this trance of indecision. Die on the vine, and coerce my skin to wake up, again.

Samson :: Regina Spektor

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