Sand. You are sand. You are the finest fragments of rock and glass. You, whom I would just as soon call my favorite addiction, are the grittiest, but to those of us that been here all along your touch is cool and soothing. You are a ghost. We are fragments of time in the wind, breezing like silt across your rippled spine. What is this collective sense? Lights pulse. Light pulses. It's one or the other. Everything halts. Stand still for a moment. Now all of it (us) are falling. Pi tch.

blac k.

Making wishes seems like a thing for children now. Ice is hanging from the ceiling. Words freeze in the air and sting like the cold of the air. We work like machines. We work machines. Are we machines? Breaks in the monotony have become addictive. I crave more. We are upon action. There should be a mission statement.

Download/Stream :: Michael Parallax - Mountain
Website :: Michael Parallax

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