this is the dry season where cicadas sick of summer, discard their shell and translates themselves into the mythology of a different land
listen, this tune no longer matches the statics of our dreamt up existence, i am sick of waiting for precipitation to fall, by day, by night i am chasing some echoless reverberation in your shadow
lightning crackles underground with the catalytic force of separation this time, i will hurl myself off this cliff,
just to feel everything splinter so i can rebuild again from ground up
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'And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.' ― Friedrich Nietzsche
