Clipped wings, my angel. Carrion by the very dawn that clasps its wretched fingers around our cankles. Cryptic shackles we clean with our tongues. It's been three weeks; we're nearly feral. And I find the pulse of your blood the most attractive feature left glaring next to your edibility. Ability.
Armin's latest album hasn't washed off of me yet, I'll admit this mittingly. Let our faults bind us more than the metaphors. Find a center, left of where we found it last, ourselves. Our sliver of eclipsing synths. I can't have it back until the ASOT 2013 comp, of this I'm sure. You're sure too, but you're waiting until you've ground your teeth away until you've solved the problem fully.
We're here until Dash Berlin lets us out. And I have more pills than the stars have shine.