Lyricist . . .

Rhetoric can't raise the dead
I'm sick of always talking when there's no change
Rhetoric can't raise the dead
I'm sick of empty words
Let's lead
Not follow

Late night
Brakes lock
Hear the tires squeal
Red light
Can't stop
So I spin the wheel
My world goes black
Before I feel an angel
Steal me from the greedy jaws of death and chance
And pull me in with steady hands
Giving me a second chance
The artist in the ambulance

Permanence . . .

I am not sure if there is such a thing as permanence. Sure, we have the word, the meaning, and the usage, but I don't believe in it. What in this world is really permanent? Yes, I have always had this body, this brain, this soul, but it has changed so much over these past 22 years that I have serious doubts over whether any of it could really be considered "the same."

You can build anything up and break it all down the next day. What in this world is not perpetually changing? Becoming older never ceases. Even bones grow older, whiter, and more brittle in the sun as the years go on.

Nothing is ever as it was.