She’s crawling slowly, like a naked Viking Madonna, across my floor. She’s wearing a neon Indian headdress and the shadows of shooting stars dance of her pale body. In the spaces of her oceans sways, she whispers seductive magnetic words: I know they world ain’t right, but im going to make it right. Lay yourself on my floor, lay down anything expect boredom. If you don’t love me till it hurts, then whats the point of all of this? I’m a wild horse. I’m a vicious tiger. If you cut me, I would bleed. If you fuck me, I would cum.
She’s intense and insane, and everything about her is fleeting and unfullfilling. She’s a parallel universe and the de ja vu is making me spin. She’s a time traveling Parisian in the shadows of sacred geometry tattooed alien goddesses. Sometimes I swear, I think she is so ‘ride or die’ it make me proud to know her, but in the end–I dont think she loves me and you shouldn’t fuck people who dont love you. We’re going to need an indie soundtrack to pass the night away. I can drink until its fun, I can dance until its real. I’m only passing by until time travels again.