I am a little toy person dancing around and around inside the pitch-black darkness of my own head, laced with edges of leftover sunlight.
I have a secret. A twilight-coloured secret. A dusk-coloured secret. My very own Duskcoloured Toy Secret.

I think roads are made of anger. Anger and frustration and tactlessness that lie in wait beneath the facade of tar. They come up to seize us through the soles of our stilettoes, sneakers, slippers and pointy-toed shoes. Up, up, up into our heads and out our mouths, straight into the hearts of those we love the most, and then they love us back a little less.

There is no surrealism, no pain, no joy a song cannot express.