The Problem With Books, Now That I've

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.

I Don't Particularly Believe All Love Is Doomed. But I Guess, One Is Usually Kinda Suffering From Some Aborted Love Affair Or Association, Rather Than Being At The Peak Of One. I Think It's Fairly Obvious That A Lot More Suffering Goes On In The Name Of Love Than The Little Happiness You Can Squeeze Out Of It.

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

Out Of Sorrow Entire Worlds Have Been Built Out Of Longing Great Wonders Have Been Willed They're Only Little Tears Darling Let Them Spill And Lay Your Head Upon My Shoulder.

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.