a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 #

letra de an insomniac haze - avalina

[verse 1]
the hands on the clock face float on by
time without substance, meaning or purpose
eyes wide open at the ungodly hours of the morn
with the street light through the blinds on her lips
no sound of cars, no drunks trudging by
the sky is clear and it hasn’t rained in days
no messenger, no saviour, no, no discord, no failure

[verse 2]
brighton is never this stagnant
pre-trip nausea, she goes downstairs
her roommate is rolling on the kitchen counter
lemon haze bound in asiatic cotton mallow
quality stuff, he says while misgendering her before l!cking thе cellophane
though
though not with intent
[verse 3]
no wondеr the kitchen smells of citric p-ss
no wonder the kitchen smells of citric p-ss
the city is immobile, lifeless and docile
less bite than a kid with a broken jaw
she puts on her coat and stands on the deck
eyes drawn to the grid of red lights looming over the ocean
lights up a sterling and despises the peppermint
spoiling the taste of her 4 am coffee
time dilation, this pocket of being
timescale differs by an order of magnitude
ensnaring the house half that’s empty yet over capacity
like five monkeys caged in a cell fit for two
buried in a mountain of introspection
she’s in the deep end of the search for existence
the l-st for meaning and a l-st for freedom
she’s done it all before, walked the same walk and cried the same night
trapped, a prisoner of her cycles, lost in samsara
endlessly repeating the same tired feelings
endlessly repeating the same weary emotions
endless, breathing
endless

[verse 4]
brighton fades into nothingness
all end, floating and meaningless
absence of sp-ce, absence of being
tightly folded excuses to mean something when you can just sit back and exist
feel nothing and everything, arms free and drifting
the lights speed past her head
vibrant pinks, neon blues, lime greens, iridescent yellows
that was the come up
she sits back on the deck and lingers, she simply exists
the disconnect from call + form
devoid of all place and purpose
liberation, isolation, there is no conquest for sp-ce
determination vanishes, urgency dissipates, an amoeba operating in a vacuum
no fear of tomorrow and no resent for yesterday, today isn’t a concept
the deadlines cease to exist and thoughts become air
liminal sp-ce, absence of want and need
is this what peace feels like?
is this what peace feels like?
[outro]
nothing here makes any sense, and that’s alright
nothing here makes any sense, and that’s alright
it’s not that deep still
because she couldn’t be dealing with that, not tonight

- avalina

letras aleatórias

MAIS ACESSADOS