Sine Wave

Gleaming are the stars above a shattered crystal ceiling hanging not so high above us hoping these we can believe in - these the golden pulsing circuits running wolves inside a synthesizer, charging and releasing all the power of the seasons.

Synchromantic

I cannot explain the time and the meshing of bodies and thoughts of our similar alternate currents together and down through the gear scream of time passing always and onward. 

And you can just forget about the end of the world. 

We won’t be here and we won’t be breathing except for the iron formed deep in some stars and blown into dust that at once was your blood charging throughout my lungs that will scatter aloud to the edge of it all and impress upon us the beginning.