The ride home

When the music through your headphones syncs perfectly with the view out of the window. Film entrance worthy, yet nothing there deserving to capture the stills but your brain, it's film noire of the darkest nature, for no one can really trust their own behaviour. Mad insane we walk around with technology as powerful as 200 million gig inside our head, to think if we were built like machines there really wouldn't be anything left. The rumbles on the tram perfectly timing with the tune, my drunken conscience muddles the two. I love this feeling, it's why I do what I do. It's why I pursue and chase down streams of my own chaos thinking that there's a hidden meaning, a grief to be spilled and told. But the cold light of tomorrow shows there's fuck all left but half drunken bottles and empty hollows, with room left for pills swallowed. There's no love here my love. Only love left here for fools. Now go before it murders us all.