All of the storms are attached by silver strings looking for a home. We’re quieted by the idea of floating in ecstasy amongst so much destruction but we radically dream of leaving, breathing and leaving. How much of a sigh, lists our woes for present favor. Teach me about my loss, inform me of the depression’s tasteless attack. I think it’s a chance for you to learn a little about my lineage, my near-death memories. The smell of ignorance, combatted by lack of resources and incubated fear. Teach me, lessons yet unheard by my spirit and cloaked hymns of promise, yearning to climb and be, to exist, to believe in possibilities unknown to man. The ease in finding true identity is coarse, well a coarse feeling unknowingly eager to disrupt your life of convention and personal ridicule. I live in a loud chasm of sounds and whispers tamed by success, which ultimately provides a morse freedom unaware of direction but highly capable of unearthing lies + rumors. The more you quake the more I believe in surviving long enough to see you in love with me….goodmorning.