;; trysmiling: April 2010

...And so, you stand still in a standstill. Hands still buildin' castles on a sandhill.

Who can tell? Your living is an organized hell. The mansion of your mind, just an oversized cell.

The pressure... everything is done to a measure.

Like a feather fallin' slow spralin' to the floor. Strung up like a broken violin to your course...