Fleeting
Fleeting
Why do I get my best ideas when
I take a shit?
Or, wake up sweating from my drunk dreams?
All of a sudden, when the pressure is off
I see the world through my own truth.
I then rush to write it down. But it's
All gone
DRY...
This used to happen to Chopin
He would go for walks with George
And have beautiful shit run through his mind
Fleeting into oblivion as he raced to the
Piano
So he could write it down
When he couldn't remember, he'd break pencils,
Run around swearing...
It's the temporality of that magic
Here, then gone
That stays in the hearts and minds of men
All we try to do is
Correct the misdeeds of a cruel, inhospitable world
So that we can live free of putting our dicks and pussies in vice
grips
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