Within Every Elaborate Lie, A Kernel Of

In America, People Of A Certain Age Ask, 'where Were You When Kennedy Was Shot?' In My House You Were More Likely To Be Asked, 'where Were You When You First Read 'the Catcher In The Rye?

I Was Aware Too How Strange Adults Were, How Theirs Lives Were Vaster Than They Wanted Anyone To Realize, That They Actually Stretched On And On Like Deserts, Dry And Desolate, With An Unpredictable, Shifting Sea Of Dunes.

I Hate How The People Who Really Get You Are The Ones You Can Never Hold On To For Very Long. And The Ones Who Don’t Understand You At All Stick Around.

Because Every One Of Us Has Our Box, A Dark Chamber Stowing The Thing That Lanced Our Heart. It Contains What You Do Everything For, Strive For, Wound Everything Around You.

Occasionally When I'm Procrastinating Writing, I'll While Away The Hours On Itunes. You Can Just Keep Going Forever And Find These Bands You'd Never Normally Hear Of.