They sing their sweet lullabys with a soothing voice. Melodic tones have never felt so alive in my veins. The velvet slippery tone of one, with the poppy, lighthearted voice of another, all meshed with the final crispy fresh cords of the last memeber created an exotic yet familiar sense within the small, white room.
Could it be? Was it lies that entranced me into their mind games? Or could it be my own iggnorance? So many questions for the ones who beholded anothers hard work. There is no one but myself to blame for the disappointment. Love of such force could have been prevented with just one "smelling of the coffee". Promises were broken in that small, white room.
Ghosts. You are ghosts drawing me in with plastic fakeness. Everywhere and nowhere at once. How could I be so fooled? I'll light myself a fag for the first time in months, the voices stopped that. Now the ghosts have taken over and there is nothing but the girl, the fag, and the small, white room.
Back? But why? Gossip and lies are not from the voices, but from the misunderstood. Clear is the light now, comforting and recognizable. Again does the velvet, pop, and crisp melt into one sultry beautiful merge of breath. And again can we sit, listen, and be preached in this small, white room.
The Bikini Kill
*a completely nonsensical story*
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Analysis' of my ramblings go here..