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• Artiste: P.S. Eliot
• Titre: Augustus
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augustus, you keep fooling me i have these wry epiphanies, like i could change the excess or auxiliary we fuck it up with envy and accost in vain every word the same the impending truth of our wellborn youth the subsequent or the demise to praise or to antagonize, it all sounds the same the arrogant teenage prestige seems like such a distinctive breed disheveled fame taking steady aim on cerebral wealth, or my own personal hell and i put down the pen, a disjointed rebirth of celebrities among the scum of the earth and you look back confused you know that i will be there too augustus, you keep fooling me i have this sensibility i can't suppress and we carry such a heavy burden with every vulnerable word we can't express and there's nothing to lose when there's no room to move and the frivolity is a temporary haven like what we're drinking or what record's playing