Over a Lydian harmony

B, D#, E#, F#

*very slowly, very quietly*

As I measure the pleasure, I lean back, cross-legged, and taste the whitewash wall.

My cheeks are peaked towards the high and take offence at every change of pace.

I enjoy having the smoke run down my throat, the ever-growing shortening.

I sneer at the seams, the breaks, the tears, the little marks of something on my mind.

Each time the grime enters the mind, it gets closer - I grow more attached to it.

The word is fascination. No - the word is obsession. There is no air of comfort.

There is only an air of content - if it's with me, my head is with me.

I enjoy having the smoke run down my throat, the ever-growing shortening.

My knees and legs feel rough, my skin all cracked and torn.

Only without any sign of any of those.

I enjoy having the smoke run down my throat, the ever-growing shortening.

Without it, I prolong something that I do not want to be a part of in the slightest.

It is not and will not always be my fault, but it matters not - it's still there.

I must want it - how could I think about it, need it - it seems...

...ironically, ha... I can't live without it.