The horns, the horns they blare into me, and flare my fucking PTSD. PTSD given to me, because of the confusion we see, and how told this is the way things are to be, for me, and for everything else in this friggin Samsara sea, of fucked up guppies flopping against the stone, gasping: "Save me." Yet any salvation from that stinking sea, is not something easy to be, gives me pause, makes me pee. I shit you not, that sea ain't for me. Yet with all my prostrations and protestations alike, that seems meant to be.
The horns, the horns they blare into me, and flare my fucking PTSD. PTSD given to me, because of the confusion we see, and how told this is the way things are to be, for me, and for everything else in this friggin Samsara sea, of fucked up guppies flopping against the stone, gasping: "Save me." Yet any salvation from that stinking sea, is not something easy to be, gives me pause, makes me pee. I shit you not, that sea ain't for me. Yet with all my prostrations and protestations alike, that seems meant to be.