The Same Outlook

Where the wild things grow
Is where big shots lay on small pocks
There is nothing but ski hills of cocaine

Everyone is wiped out

The ocean dreads to crash against the shore
A computer removing the oxygen from his lungs
He lays on the beach of broken glass with the water still
He suffocates with a whore in each arm

Lots and lots of downhill skiing
In the nighttime when it was the right time
A purple waxy coloured sky destroys us all
So that survival doesn't work any more

I can see the horizen through the whole thing

For those who are over the hill
You never had a chance anyway
But for those of us who have found our place on top of the hill
Here's to you
And the morbid death that lay beyond
One that looks gorgeous to us all
Yet one that takes decades to finally find

The Outskirts

He drove his car north-west towards Lake Huron. The grey behind him seemed to drift further away, ever so slowly. His blue eyes glanced at the rear view mirror, which reminded him that everything that just happened did in fact just happen. That's why he was driving towards Lake Huron.

For some reason.
Water.
Was.
The answer.