the dreamsleeper

in the quest for the cup, wastful by doctors orders. who are we in the minds of the bourgeois there sweet sunshine made by the dirty boots of the lower classes. the empty page of a disconnection notice lite only by the plastic sun, while small flowers crack concrete, nevermind beuty lies in the eye of stereo sanctity noise through the pipe line kill time..stil pattern recognition is a must. paper cup exits the unmade bed still driping from the dreams lost in its head. oh beautiful plateau i love the golden blue of your wild flower soul rain hitting tin with hits of sunshine. the ineffable me makes junkies promises while society is a hole. inhuman the world looks red confusion is next making the nature scene drunken butterflies shoot swimsuit issues as a trilogy. theres a sound- world. can you hear it wishfulfilment as the orange rolls and the angels spit on the shadows of doubt. do you think you were happy when you were a baby and your first sounds came out.
worrisome wonderers worry no more, for tomarrow the birds will sing so much better then before. much like any good entertainer nature saves the best for the end of the show.