There is nothing that I know,
but that it is better to go.
Oh, to die by the mile
rather than stagnant in brain bile.

Twisting, turning, reeling, burning
pleasure pain
Don’t die “sane”!

Surely the end grows ever nearer,
and as it does it becomes clearer.
I was once what I ain’t,
and shall never be called saint.

My compass don’t point North,
I threw that shit in the ocean,
Just one thought I’d bring forth,
There is nothing but the motion.

Move.