Blisters on my tongue from swallowing their sun.
No. Not free. Just... other.
I am counting the atoms in my own scream. mudvayne alien
Breathe in: 4/4. The machine heart ticks. Breathe out: syncopation. The ribs rattle like dice cups. Blisters on my tongue from swallowing their sun
There is a rhythm in the breakdown. Not chaos. Anti-chaos. A deliberate unspooling of the spine. I twist my limbs into knots just to feel the tendons sing. Pop. Snap. The sound of a puppet cutting its own strings. mudvayne alien
So I build my own gravity. Spasms become sentences. The bass groove is a spine I crawl up. The kick drum is a second heart—ugly, irregular, alive.