Nate: With each exhibit a new limit, common prophets bury hatches for the masses’ latest gimmick, skillful, crafted so vindictive and addictive. Such a poet, dynamite and pack of matches lighting fuses—so let’s blow it, write my name in the ashes. Antibiotic like a white blood cell, instincts robotic and then overstay welcomes like a comfortably numb narcotic. Time/space dissolve with no trace resolve, continuums genuine folding minimums overall. Dropping the ball like a neurosurgeon strung out on Haldol or a drunk juggling clown no longer juggling… Awww!!! Recall your products purchased by hypnotics. High-tech, futuristic—exotic, neurotic: We bought it. So second-guess it, statistic: Another listed—no names, just numbers, only matters who they miss. A tryst forms between a silent night and a dream, soon balls up in a fist of insignificant gleam drawn from pixels and vigils watching over the oblivious visuals of residual principles placing critical. It’s time to honor the occasion of changing occupation—we’re no longer perpetual to specialist and patient. Competitors in purgatory, quotients of division—I’ll handle the heat in hell so stay the fuck in the kitchen…

Eric: Reverberate sucker punch. Drunk tank, flunk prank—thankfully lungs overrate / override. My motorcycle eyes roll by while my third made a tricycle with greater front wheel-one circumference. Sleeping friction: These REM RPM’s melt my eye-cycle—painstakingly take the last night train to Nonstopsville. Derail windowsills while the wizard wearing a traffic cone for a hat misspells the simplest riddles most critical…

Nate: Just a blessing, distressing situations that keep you guessing—I’ve martyred the differentials, the appropriate's impressing. Here’s a process, almost as awkward as incest. I once guessed the answer to every question of life’s tests. Interpret everything to represent, and repent my two cents thrown in the mix with lassos silent—who’s the pilot? On mind’s vacation through shades of violet staring at the sun just to see how damaged my eyes get. Things I said tend to be hypocritically told, only cuz my mind’s a self-operated remote control. So through goals: Always up to my ears in diagnosis that determine the pressure steady building in the psychosis. Symbiosis of atrocious melodies blindly concocted like a reverse rocket—I’m the sorry guy in the cockpit. Doors lock, bitch—you can remain in the cold and cough up the memory that gave the impression that I was soft. With eyes full of dollar signs and a mind with no sense, the outlet shortedly shouted out the world’s current events and at the pocket’s expense the hands are playing catch with threats—empty, so powerless, clutch a cardiac arrest. I profess numerous experiments and test to determine the outcome of the bored, dumb, depressed. Think of it like going under at the orthodontist: My power strip tangles vocal chords, trust me—I’m honest…

Nate and Eric: Honestly, honesty’s always been stalking me, mocking me, mockingly mocking the real personality… Technically checking the right technicality… Has to be bastardly lost in normality… Honestly, honesty’s always been stalking me, mockingly mocking the real personality… Technically checking the right technicality… Has to be bastardly lost in normality…