He needs these people, these boisterous places, unsettling things
All of it painting an intricate, albeit colourful picture on up inside – suddenly slipping right back into real life
Ladies and mentalmen, the artists’ kind of stroll, to bend and whip, and brush and stretch and fold it back together again
When memories steal a little and never a lot, you’ll never, ever so much as root yourself to any known spot, will you, though?
Too hot to trot and spot the next great sensation, an artists’ real dream to forever ensconce themselves in these scintillating landscapes, break then draw the balancing-act border between what’s false and real life – shall we dance, be it of a rather soliloquyed evening down by these otherwise seriously clotted banks, or right back up inside of your jovial mind – you might be thankful of the reprieve
One thing’s for sure, you will never, ever lose yourself and hide
And if you do, so you know, we just sit and wait with bated breath to watch the biggest cliché in the whole exposed world unravel

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