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Strobe-like attention spans being bought and sold to the biggest investor and the brightest flash in the pan. Pre-packaged for a premature burial. Follow me to the market, merely open your eyes. Innocent contortionist; proprietor of the moment, take your fifteen minutes in the spotlight, with full realization of its limited duration. Bleed me like spilt coffee with a pen in hand and a twitch in the eye. Boredom brings some awful lows; a nauseating cliché. That sex driven back beat fills the morning air, breathing life into a season with such characteristic low humidity and morale. Trolling for spies and false pride. That bronzed stare peers through all department store illusions; a view of unbearable pain secured just beneath the surface. Oh baby please believe me, I've got the scars to prove it. We've become a trademark of such repeated reluctance to read between the lines.

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