Painfully laid out in a bed of rock, playing with every thought as if they were palpable. Living and dying and being born again within the dream: quick, flavorful, delightful. But it all sums up to pain unyielding, comforted by a dream of pettiness. A speck of burning gravel upon a speck of burning dirt, within the incomprehensible ghast of reality. Reblogged 4 years ago from homotography. Read his shit. ». It’s good, for the most part. The Dark of the Matinee by Franz Ferdinand. All the girls I hate.