about the fog and the blood,
The need for sleep,
and ache in my side gently reminding me I'm alive.
They said it's nice to have someone to talk to
but this isn't talking, not a conversation with robots.
But my weapon isn't what I think, It's the way I move through space
It's the look I saw in your own eye, and the whole dream sequence I lived and learned through.
It's my willingness to not make sense and mean it.
Here you might hear fingers figuring figments in space
limiting meaning not only to your own imagining or mine,
but something inbetween, (which apparently isn't even a real word)
and way beyond,
where the laws of grammer don't matter,
because it's not about understanding
its about what I said.
