Our Son Is Dead

Artists : Twelve Hour Turn : Our Son Is Dead

i go through the rations; they cannot produce the desired effect, cannot make me feel anything real or of worth. familiar surroundings which once seemed inviting; two bodies familiar cannot produce the desired effect. a need for real warmth; the feel of sunlight on skin. no manmade creation; fifty watts burnt out. lights out; as if that would hide facts or feelings of knowledge of what lies before us -- IT FELT LIKE STEALING. an attempt successful for the moment if only for the moment, enough for execution. only thoughts of learning and nothing doing; i expected more from you than distant dodging eyes. it is true; you will lead your epicurean life.