Manners

Futuristic nostalgia, it's going to be big. Pop stars can't ever top Roman emperors crucifixion/orgies/vomitoriums vs Blood/glitter/ringtone.

An astronomer in a black hole. A lifevest in a sunken ship. A clean suit on a corpse. A birthday cake in a retirement home. Standing around waiting for that hasn't happened yet. The living pray to the long dead stars, sustained by the faith we found in waiting rooms and bars. Killed myself and sold the rights, I'm epic now I'm told. The past will always be the present, because we remain constant in our shock. This retro glam coffin blasting us to Planet Tool, the underground made visible, the exception to the rule. The human condition was epoch when it's old. The countdown started halfway through the show, the fisherman on top of the water watched the undertow. This intermission until the finale, well that's where we'll be, nothing more than playbills and popcorn boxes in the grand scheme.

If you have ever sat on a beach in the quiet dark, felt the scope with the silence, you know that the in between is the best it gets. It depends on your venue, but your song is irrelevant.

A line on hotel Bible, getting you through the day. A hook in your head, a soundtrack for your stay.