between_now_and_time raze i think hope simply becomes too much a person. the weather becomes a strange sort of poem. there are too many of us, and we live too long. talking is bullshit unless you measure it against caring. you only get one set of lungs. you can bury the past, but the ground always gives it back, and then you panic. the heart is a murderous weapon i'm reclaiming. i'm going to love a house of lightning. 260711 what's it to you? who go blather from