“Become Solid” all day long. Breathe in the song’s melodies and gently stretch your lungs. Find yourself found in the center of melt. Waste away into the grains of time falling from glass to glass to glass. Easy now. Light in and light out. Lunch, maybe. Crisp in beer. Water on tap. It can give you breast and brain cancer. Looking up. With a yellow face washed in death. Witnessing the cloth covering matter to matter. Matter of straining and sighing and letting all your blood flow — no — TIDE toward your mind, and you see nothing but darkness. Your eyes swelling in darkness. Repeat this verbally, now. As best as you can.
There you “Become Solid.” In a matter of keeping it together. Keeping it together. Fuck. Manic. Fear. Paranoia. Oh,,,, shit all this all day: “Become Solid.” Stiffening sorrow. To stone from once you came, ghasts the gaze of Medusa upon the mortal being bread gone moldy. It’s the last thing you have to live off. It’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. It’s upon the two punctured dots sunk into your leg, dragging a trail of void. Red. This is not your home anymore. It slithers away. To “Become Solid.” To keep it together. To Russian Tsarlag for the tears. Don’t get wet, but 100 times more, yes. Or, forever, please.