And I fell, because that’s what I do. It’s not a sign of weakness. And even if it was, who cares? I’m a young man, despite the litany of battle scars I like to lick. It takes [thrilling] remixes like this sometimes to help me realize that. I’m so scarred because I’ve got no backup, still I take jet planes from New York to fuck knows and throw myself into the conditions on the ground without a second thought. Whether that lands me in traffic, the sea or the hills of LA soaking up some semblance of good life, I don’t really care. I need that forward momentum, if I die it won’t be like everyone that did around me, caught by surprise of the false security of stasis.
And my body is a bit of destroyed, I can taste it like a disaster in my bloody mouth. I’ve duct taped my legs onto hips that won’t buckle under pressure, but might throw themselves into the air at the slightest provocation. I’ve got arms held by band-aids to shoulders that drop them into intersections at times, but push against me and they’ll go swinging like prizewinners. I’ve laid in the middle of my own chaos and can boast many a blood transfusion. But my heart isn’t weak: if it skips a beat that is, fuck I hope, a sign that it can feel that little thing called infatuation. And maybe my body doesn’t jive with that groundswell of youthful rigor I want to portray, but I’ve got enough vigor to cockslap the world if it comes to that. God, let’s hope it doesn’t come to swagger, as I prefer to be a beacon of light all over my body, not just in some interminable sword fight.
Mind over matter. Even with kneecaps busted, you got to let yourself arise dancing with ego from the next plane, music like this pumping a heart in tatters. That’s really all you can believe in, that I’ll still stomp my feet to sounds like this even as the bones poke through my shoes.