I'm Unable To Really Write The Kind

And I Wish That I Was Made Of Stone So That I Would Not Have To See A Beauty Impossible To Define A Beauty Impossible To Believe A Beauty Impossible To Endure The Blood Imparted In Little Sips The Smell Of You Still On My Hands As I Bring The Cup Up To My Lips No God Up In The Sky No Devil Beneath The Sea Could Do The Job That You Did, Baby Of Bringing Me To My Knees

It Is The Haunted Premises Of Longing That The True Love Song Inhabits. It Is A Howl In The Void, For Love And For Comfort And It Lives On The Lips Of The Child Crying For His Mother. It Is The Song Of The Lover In Need Of Her Loved One, The Raving Of The Lunatic Supplicant Petitioning His God...the Love Song Is The Sound Of Our Endeavors To Become God-like, To Rise Up And Above The Earthbound And The Mediocre.

There Are Methods To Creating A Mayhem That Sounds Different From Your Usual Mayhem. Because Mayhem And A Heavy Drum Backbeat End Up Sounding Like Green Day Or Something. But If You Put A Different Beat Within It To Create Some Air And Lightness, The Chaos Comes Through Better.

I Don't Know, Maybe Australian Humour Isn't Supposed To Be Funny. It's As Dry As The Sahara, And I Think People Miss That.

Death Looms Large I Guess Because It Should. It's The One Thing That We As Human Beings From Birth Have A Right To. It's The Only Thing We've Really Got, And I Don't Mean To Sound Bleak About This, But It's A Unifying Factor Amongst Us All.