It’s not a regression, but it’s a standstill, continuous broken continuity, you see a pale world behind swollen eyes. Tired legs tap off-tempo to the sound of a new song, and old teachings swell from throats of the past. You say a leopard can change it’s spots, but you still can’t see rainbows, it’s like a masterpiece painted with broken brushes and your belief lies in torn pages. Your belief lies in torn pages, torn pages that writhe and run down a path untrodden. Cold hearts beat inside broken cages. These heads lay buried in books, false script clothing their ears.