Dancing in the Back Room

It's like a split into two. There's the first person narrative, perhaps our life at work or our common conceptions of conversation. The way we act according to social structure and what is expected vs. what we know to be true by personal subjective standards. This public person is our everyday, of course. But we play death games inside, and i know why, oh i know why, we do stray.

All i'm saying is love in haste happens regardless of our wants and needs. And as our first person narrates what's for lunch, the split occurs. We make mechanical fizzle apart, we go to play, we dance in the back room of our innards. And we can feel it there, it creating slight hemorrhages that definately cause pain but also sweetness at the escaping quality of liquid-spilled freedom. The dance doesn't last, and its transitory nature is inevitable due to the fact that we can't lose blood for long. And we know it'll stop, and it won't happen again for a while, but we hold our breath for that next time.

This is about our mind. (s).