You know I've been thinking;
Structure shatters 
but matter just matters.

You know, all the skeletons that pile in my closet are just gathering dust,
and you know, I'll guess I'll clear them out.
Get me a broomstick for a sword
a roomba for a shield
and I might just face the haunted attic of my fears.

Bones here rattle with delight
and the air is dense with disuse,
but it's past Halloween, so it's alright;
what's already dead can't...

I keep insisting I am not a romantic, and I'll hold it to my last vapours on this Earth, but if I had to be honest I'd tell you that time sings a different tune. I keep insisting I am not a romantic; no, it's just romanticism - you know, Mary Shelley? Poe? Byron? We've been through this. You asked which author I related to and I said my depths could only ever be contained by a whole artistic movement,...