Originally Uploaded here
I'm drunk on work and lyrics, politics and dry cider. The country I live in faces a political crisis of lethargic proportions, and all I can do is listen to Amanda Palmer's solo album again and again and again. The amount of work I need to get done in the entire foreseeable future is literally impossible, and I frequently reach for the bottle after work if I haven't already reached for the climbing wall and I bring myself to sleep perhaps a little later than healthy but it keeps me sane - the slow come down necessary in the face of it all.
There, I shiver restlessly and dream of you, fictional moments wrapped together with Amanda's lyrics, punctuated by the same erratic piano percussion, and sometimes I wake up mid-song. The fake memories persist, and I wonder how your idea can so happily coexist with the reality of my romantic life and I suppose I don't really give a shit how. God, this cider is good.
The music, it mimics the meter of my mind, savagely methodical and unhinged yet so perfectly in tune. You might wear away at my sanity when I let the tight grip on my psyche slips in my dreams, but it's like a dance. We're dancing, you and I, my forever, my always, my never, my doesn'tactuallyexist. Between, popping between beats, or in particularly labyrinthine bridges, I can get furious about the blatantly undemocratic unproductive bullshit.
And then, I'm back to work, I'm sure I've eaten or I wouldn't be able to produce anything. I really hope it amounts to something useful.
Written On: Home Computer
Currently Listening: Who Killed Amanda Palmer?