I am golden, a brand new face. Flayed my skin, kisan of damascus steel.
B.o.B. – Magic, feat. Rivers Cuomo (full lyrics)
I’ve got the magic in me. Everytime I touch the track it turns it into gold. Everybody knows I’ve got the magic in me. When I hit the floor the girls come snapping at me. Now everybody wants some presto magic
I just want to know that this is okay. If who I am is as monstrous as has been claimed.
My identity. So many versions of myself in written, observed, recorded memories. My old livejournal entries from 2001 cry out for death to take me, to bestow upon me a brand new identity.
I am corrupted. Possessed with the Midas touch. I serve kings, wizards, quicksilver soothesayers. I do not serve them, however, I just do what I do. They fall upon my shadow, grapple the hem of my jeans. They rise and fall in their hearts with every step I take, their bindis and burrs carried on with me.
Fables or parables?
Fable this time, hip-hop of Aesop. Jump to it, I guess. I can save my parabolic ablation for the build-a-bible dream project one day
I am the chicken kicker, achievement unlocked in the game.
I am like the golden goose. I produce something valuable, which has no inherent value to me. Oh, You like that thing I did? Yeah, you can keep it I guess. I do that kind of shit everyday. *shrugs*
I am a golden calf.
Athena and Zeus chopped me up and spread me all around. Or did they just find a piece of me and declared themselves the chosen heirs, as if it confirmed of my blessing?
Lies and more lies carried on through the Aegis. I did not stamp that approval.
This was pretty much the way it has always been, in regards to “it looks much worse than it is” and… I always seemed to turn up in just about everywhere, in assumed memory. Those first necromantic energies were carried out to summon me. I was their lucky charm token, a lucky rabbit paw. This probably explains my (fore) knowledge (although it is hindsight, now) of the underground channels of warrens and worms.