One begins to know the shifts in mood of one’s beloved,
by the way certain places on their bodies smell as they burn
I leave it burning and count the dead
A jilted lover, a one time friend
It reeks of incest
It reeks of pain
Erase my anguish, forget your name
Can’t see the future
I just break free and run
And knowing nothing, I know that it’s just begun
This day feels different
Feels like, like shedding skin
My mind is clearer now, I know what state I’m in
And from a distance, it seems so unreal
Nothing left
Nothing to feel
And if it hurts you, you hurt me too
I had to kill it to heal the wound
Heal!
Can’t see the future
I just break free and run
And knowing nothing, I know that it’s just begun
This day feels different
Feels like, like shedding skin
My mind is clearer now, I know what state I’m in
Nietzsches ‘Four Questions of Conscience’
from ‘Twilight of the Idols’
You run ahead? Are you doing it as a shepherd? Or as an exception? A third case would be the fugitive. First question of conscience.
Are you genuine? Or merely an actor? A representative? Or that which is represented? In the end, perhaps you are merely a copy of an actor. Second question of conscience.
Are you one who looks on? Or one who lends a hand? Or one who looks away and walks off? Third question of conscience.
Do you want to walk along? Or walk ahead? Or walk by yourself? One must know what one wants and that one wants. Fourth question of conscience.
Somewhere high in the desert, near a curtain of a blue
Saint Ann’s skirts are billowing
But down here in the city of limelights
The fans of Santa Ana are withering
And you can’t deny the living is easy
If you never look behind the scenery
It’s showtime for dry climes
And bedlam is dreaming of rain
When the hills of Los Angeles are burning
Palm trees are candles in the murder wind
So many lives on the breeze
Even the stars are ill at ease
And Los Angeles is burning
This is not a test
Of the emergency broadcast system
Where Malibu fires and radio towers
Conspire to dance again
And I cannot believe the media Mecca
They’re only trying to peddle reality
Catch it on prime time, story at nine
The whole world is going insane
When the hills of Los Angeles are burning
Palm trees are candles in the murder wind
So many lives are on the breeze
Even the stars are ill at ease
And Los Angeles is burning
A placard reads, “The end of days”
Jacaranda boughs are bending in the haze
More a question than a curse
How could hell be any worse?
The flames are starting
The camera’s running
So take warning
When the hills of Los Angeles are burning
Palm trees are candles in the murder wind
So many lives are on the breeze
Even the stars are ill at ease
And Los Angeles is burning
The Haunted Typewriter 