Purely visual exploration of the band. Written some time ago.
In the bluest of dreams, I am always alone. Just me, the sky, sometimes water, and a field of blue flowers. Sometimes hydrangea, sometimes blue roses with sharp and bloodstained thorns, once a dusty patch of very blue violets. I stand in the center of it all, and I can feel my heart breaking. I look down at my hands, but they are crumbling to dust, still covered by lace gloves. To my left, my guitar is stuck into the earth like some strange headstone. To my right, a patch of wild ivy clings to a thing that might have once been a body. I can see bits of lace and brocade still sticking out between the gently blue-tinted leaves. It fascinates me, and I am frozen to the spot, wondering what may lie there. When I have remembered how to move again, I turn to it, kneel there, and try to brush away a sticky strand with my useless hands. I can just see a tendril that isn't green, but yellowish, no, blonde, it's a blonde curl...I don't want to look, but my arms move of their own accord, moving the greenery away from--
Of course, I am there, rotting away beautifully. My eyes, purest blue, stare blindly up at the perfect sky, and what little is left of my flesh is porcelain white, almost the same color as the bone that shines through. I am moved forward to kiss the skull, bare cheek, bone cheek, and then the lips, which are still whole, still sheathed in blue lipstick. I begin to truly crumble at this point, turning to dust and coating the corpse, which strangely, seems to become more and more intact as I disintegrate. At the last moment, just before I am entirely gone, I become aware of a second set of perceptions, of being able to see myself as I fade. Finally, I am nothing but dust. I open my new eyes and climb from my grave of leaves. The world has been reborn, but I am still alone. I pick up my guitar and cradle it like a doll. It is then that I wake up, and, upon opening my real eyes, find them filling with tears.
Red, red, red for flames, for blood, for roses and heat. Red for blurry eyes at six o'clock in the morning. Red for the crimson blush that colors Mana's cheeks underneath all the makeup. I know it's there when he looks at certain people, because I can hear things that they don't think I can. All it takes is wakefulness when other people think you're asleep. Red for the color of lips, rouged and tinted for the sake of beastly beauty. But it's other colors that take the attention from the red. Drink down your red while you can, o world of unforgiving loveliness. It will wait only so long, breathing silently down your neck when you least expect it. Red is for me, my guitar humming in the silence of the dawn, when red bleeds across the sky.
You can be taken by surprise, little bluebird, with your dear black plumage. You can be clutched about the neck, taken from your safe little bushes and your bleak-faced, pretty friend, and kept in a flowering cage of thorns and roses blooming red, red, red. You would live there, safe from the world as you wish to be, like a little precious doll. You don't know how much I think about you, how often I wonder how you might feel under my gentle fingers, nails painted scarlet like the ribbons I've tied in your hair. Gently, softly, you might be lulled to sleep with a crimson lullaby, the song of blood. Red is for flames, for blood, for roses and heat. Red for love and loss and the soft cry of a mourning dove, red ring of pain eternally wrapped about its neck.
Look at this! This place, this face, this heart! I'm a mess! You don't think calm and pure when you think of yellow, do you? Oh...I see. It's a ruse. You want to look deep into the heart of gold that beats within this sorry person. Try again. I can think of better things to waste my time on, I'll tell you that much. Butterfly yellow, blazing harmless over and under and around people's heads, but, no, that butterfly is brilliant purple. I could elaborate, but I've got a time limit and a patience limit and you're stretching both. The sun is yellow, sometimes, and sunset is the most beautiful time of day. Who was it that claimed that they could love the moon more easily than any bright noon? I'm lost in your eyes, my darling lunar wanderer. I'm lost entirely. I want you to be consumed in my brilliant, shimmering flames, white-hot, until you know how I feel, until you are willing to hear my words, too.
Where is it? Where is it? What have I lost, in my waiting for these things to happen on their own! Yellow cowardice covers me like a blanket, drowning me deeply in its fearful howl. The sun is setting, and the sky is fading to black. Who have I offended, to render my beautiful butterfly flightless? Who can restore the solar god, now sinking into a deep blue wasteland? Where is it now, my splendid golden heart...!?
I live for my creations, the gentle percussive motions underlying everything. This vivid heartbeat, colored purple by my heart's blood, is my last possession. Is this life? This world the color of a faded bruise? Who can tell me? I knew things that you never told me, just you knew those things that I could never tell you. Who else could find their way through a maze of lost dreams and wishes with the ease of a swallow? Who else could read the writing on the walls when it's been written in fresh blood? What is this purple blood to you, this deep blood, cooling, congealing in a puddle on the floor--not red blood, not any longer--what is it that you want from it?
Have you seen the sky at 5 a.m.? The gentle purple tones, violent even in their stillness, draw the sun up from the west. I have watched the world become lavender at sunset, and then again in the sunrise, and I have laughed to think that those gentle colors would never appear at midday. Would you laugh with me, if I were to become like those colors, and never be anything beyond an ephemeral shadow on the sun?
Like ghosts. They are like ghosts, fighting over their own memories. I have my own memories to face, my own to battle, but it seems that they cannot stop, even for a moment. I would rather choose my freedom. Flying high above the earth on bleak, blackened wings, but unable to reach God, still, I would rather plummet to my death than be trapped in chains.
You who think that singing is difficult on its own, try singing to people who aren't listening to a thing you say. And if there were one, just one, who were listening...and they were to vanish...what then? What of the light then? Wouldn't you want to disappear into the darkness?