descartes is a wanker

      the bite of the chill, a boney embrace    
      like a sack over the mind, with a stomach    
      churned into sand, she hears not my cries,    
     no one sees my insides    
     no one sees my insides    
   
           I speak the truth with the light of my eyes    
           I shed my soul with the tears of my lies    
   
     I upset the Maker, which I made    
     I impressed the Devil, who I craved    
     I said I was saved.    
   
                    es denkt.