Shit I won't say, except within this sanctum, 1
You belong to you. Not to anyone or any situation. I told you this so many times tonight, and once so many years ago, the day we met, energy so deeply enmeshed, swords clashing at the chest, both resisting going face to knees, lethal sprees, break necks and just enjoy the physical clairvoyance. 'You belong to the city' - Glen Frey, that's been me since I was 3. Not you though, Midnight Kitty. You belong to you. If in some way off future I dive whole-artistry no-control-over-my-heart-in-my-steeze like some kind of masochistic fucking Mephistopheles into your eyes and whisper-growl enrapt and glib "My", then some adjectives followed by "Queen" rest assured the only thing that statement implies towards possession is my admiration. Cold truths, that's the only shit I or any man can hold onto. Spry awakening, my admiration. That's all of the lines, no pre-design, that's all that's ever been mine. My admiration. Rules of Manhood: 1. Take full stock of yourself, motherfucker. An artist knows what he brings. This life is your art. Life is the art of "Fuck it, just send ME in!" 2. Only be a part of what's genuine. 3. Take full accountability for everything, every feeling, action, thought or consequence. The single common denominator in your e'rything, e'rything is you. Your focus will make your world with a touch. No escaping and hating is confused admiration, as such? Your admiration is your paintbrush and your pain rush. I can feel your unknown growing with every call and whether or not you should fall, know that you belong to you, and that's who I keep talking to.