What makes you tick?
What's the heart of the matter?
Is it all just transcendental planes of existence or is there a balance in this chaos we embody?
So many avenues of thought and presence to operate upon; how does one sort the surreal from the same old shit?
Every glimpse of magic becomes distorted by every passing year alive.
Love is an illusion. Either that, or some grand experience none of us have felt yet.
Because it was almost love. Almost honest. Almost great in every way except first promised. Is it my personal error in not seeing the problems and addressing or forgiving, or is it that I've not yet felt thus?
So much drink and not a drop of satisfaction. So many faces and yet so alone.
So much music in vain and for no one in particular.
I think I've ignored my happiness to such extremes that I do not know where it would be any longer.

Lost in a sea of thirsty faces,
I'm resolute in my attempt
At a life where the first crack is
Mine to breach the night and
Sound awakening to every bit
Of heartfelt fiber I encompass.