King for a Day, History for a Lifetime

Dedicated to Faith No More, with the gratitude for the most authentic “chalga” party I have once attended and most of all that you have reunited for me, hehheh no giggling, Mr. Patton… Dedicated also to the mark of rock, to our common “die hard” habit and to heroes in general.


track >> PLAY
band >> faith no more
lyrics >> king for a day

These days, my pencils have little energy. Tilted in my box as if crestfallen, looking down and further, to the earth. Each stared at its little outlined spot, nestled in the narrow space, not daring to move a bit. No much air in the small ovals, but it is cold outside, dangers stalk.

There are such moments in life when, leaning clumsily cheek on your sweaty palm, with idle fingers the other tries to straighten your pencils, exhausted itself, and you only look at them, not participating. Yes, there are such moments and they have their reasons, which remain hidden for the writers only, their secrets. Staring at the pencil box together with its pencils, your, your pencils, and then you want to narrate. Selfish are writers, keeping their true stories aside, leaving the tales for you. If it continues to lean against the edge, in such crestfallen air, it might break down. No, it will not find enough strength, but will certainly bend down, will flow down like melted crayon, will fill in the little ovals with small pools of deep purple ink, while only graphite in dry powder remains from it before long.

Being lords of our time, how much does it cost to us and was it worth it at all?! Kings of the day, the world at our feet, got there even by chance, while romping without direction, just like this, most chaotic, in an attempt to release the exceeding loads of oil, erupting in spasms and waves inside out our fragile depths. World at our feet, nothing but a plain ball, not even leather-made but rubber, made for children, quite infant, but more resilient than ourselves. Step upon it, it will not burst. Will hiss until some time and then surely someone will swell it again; but easy to slip when you step upon it. Falls, raw knees and elbows, healing quickly, it is all a game. We know about the wounds only when they start to fade outside, to vanish, soaking more and more inward.

Masters of the time, but powerless to stop its waste amongst our languishing fingers. Kings for a day, unable to prevent our doom, the self-destruction, from lights to turn into shadows. Bearing the burden of the truth, shall we be kings, we shall be history as well. Glorious legend, enviable, tragic, comic, thick voluminous chronicle with gold-woven purple covers lied on a pedestal in our personal crypts… A book, just a book, present in our place; shall we not be kings, however, no one will be to write it.

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