The getting-together of the shit. Could take a night, could take five years.
Must have been a fool ‘til the bitter end
Now I hold onto hope that I’ll have you back again
You’re gonna have to step over my dead body Before you walk out that door You charmed me with your magic Landed looking tragic “Forever” is the feather you ain’t got no more
If a man is considered guilty
4 what goes on in his mind
Then give me the electric chair
4 all my future crimes - OH!
where harmony and love reign
no longer do we live in a society bent on it’s own destruction
children of every race, creed and religion frollick through fields
of golden dandelions
Something happens and it’s not enough
Never thought that it would mean so much.
I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don’t want to do that.
I’m wildly unhappy, and I’m trying to buy it, and it’s not working.
Crazy, Stupid, Love.
I never knew where I was going,
I went where the water was flowing.
I never thought I’d find the humor in having my music liquidated. Fat Beats says, “Yo man, your shit ain’t selling, we have about 2,000 pieces of vinyl and CDs in the warehouse. We don’t want to carry it. You can come get it if you want.” I already had that shit coming out of my ears! So I went and signed off on it being destroyed. When I came home my grandma was like, “You got something.” It was a note from my digital distributor, saying they were removing my songs from iTunes because they weren’t selling. About the same time somebody called me and said, “Yo, why don’t you have a Wikipedia page?” It had been removed for, like, lack of validity. All this shit happened at once, but when I wrote about it, I was just laughing the whole time.
I think the most important thing about music is the sense of escape.
Cause every single story
Is a story about love
Both the overflowing cup
And the painful lack thereof.
Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life…
I think it’s great for two people to be together. That is a good number. I think, that to keep it alive though, you can’t spend every day together. It wears out the magic, Love means nothing to me if it’s not fortified with fierce, painful longing, brief explosive instances of furious passion and intimacy and then a sad parting for a time. In that way, you can give your life to it and still have a life of your own. I think some couples spend too much time together. They flatten out the potential for experience by constant closeness. Passion builds over time like steam. Let it rage until it’s exhausted and then leave it alone to let it build up again. Why can’t love be insane and distorted? How can it be vital if it has the same threshold as normal day-to-day experience? Why can’t you write burning letters and let your nocturnal self smolder with desire for one who is not there? Why not let the days before you see her be excruciating and ferment in your mind so on the day you go to the airport to pick her up, you’re nearly sick with anticipation? And then when desire shows the first sign of contentment, throw it back it its cage and let it slowly build itself back into a state of starved fury. Then when you are together, it all matters. So that when you look into her eyes, you lose your balance, so that when she touches you, it feels like you have never been touched before. When she says your name, you think it was she who named you. When she has gone, you bury your face in the pillow to smell her hair and you lie awake at night remembering your face in her neck, her breathing and the amazing smell of her skin. Your eyes go wet because you want her so bad and miss her so much. Now that is worth the miles and the time. That matches the inferno of life. Otherwise you poison each other with your presence day after day as you drag each other through the inevitable mundane aspects of your lives. That is the slow death that I see slapped on faces everywhere I go. It’s part of the world’s sadness that’s more empty than cold, poorly lit rooms in cities of the American night.