So He's Worth A Second

We Are The Ones Who Take This Thing Called Music And Line It Up With This Thing Called Time. We Are The Ticking, We Are The Pulsing, We Are Underneath Every Part Of This Moment. And By Making The Moment Our Own, We Are Rendering It Timeless. There Is No Audience. There Are No Instruments. There Are Only Bodies And Thoughts And Murmurs And Looks. It's The Concert Rush To End All Concert Rushes, Because This Is What Matters. When The Heart Races, This Is What It's Racing Towards.

Perhaps It's Not That I'm Frigid-- It's That Once I Decide I Like A Guy, I Turn Into A Raging Idiot, Unfit For Public Appearances.

I Figured Being A Bed Salesman Was A Job Of Biblically Bad Paradox. I Mean, Here He Was, Forced To Stand For Eight Or Nine Hours A Day, And The Whole Time He’s Surrounded By Beds. And Not Only That, He’s Surrounded By Shoppers Who See The Beds And Can’t Help But Think, Man, I’d Love To Lie Down On That Bed For A Second. So Not Only Does He Have To Stop Himself From Lying Down, But He Has To Stop Everyone Else From Doing It, Too. I Knew If I Were Him, I Would Be Desperate For Human Company.

I Wanted To Talk To Someone. But Who? It’s Moments Like This, When You Need Someone The Most, That Your World Seems Smallest.

When Is The Night Over? Is It The Start Of Sunrise Or The End Of It? Is It When You Finally Go To Sleep Or Simply When You Realize That You Have To?