I barely remember my instincts, my home, a golden age of my own. On a concrete ground I watch the weather change, things we should never derange.
I see beauty in dying flowers. I find bliss in acid rain. These days it all seems so mundane.
Everyone is wired to a dying tree. Everyone is connected to the sea.
On my plastic floor I just can't seem to get it's all perfectly coherent.
Everyone is wired to a dying tree. Everyone is connected to the sea. Radio waves radiation in the air we breathe Everyone is choking on our frequencies