About the Songs

  Portland Press Herald I didn't write the lyrics in 1993. That is about the time I had lost the screw driver, which was the last thing I owned that I brought with me from home. I had lost the letter about 2 years earlier when I lived in the median strip of Gandy Boulevard. I believe I wrote the lyrics after I found the hypnotic trigger and became crazy, seeing little cartoon people in my head. Some of them used to attack me using colored spherical ball like lights. I thought they were made from the blood of murdered victims so I tried making one out of my own from a dead turkey that became a turkey sandwich I was eating at the time and the ball became a person I see who I now call Devin. I didn't name him. He had been seemingly sexually abused by one of the enemies attacking me and I later read an article in some magazine about an autistic child whose mother had killed him because the mother said the child had told her that he had been sexually abused the same way by the boy...

 Gemini - Suno Songs 'The ink is drying on a ghost of a chance, Static on the wire, a long-distance dance. I left the pages where the light hits the floor, Between the punch press rhythm and the open door. ​They say a century is a blink and a sigh, A hundred years of chasing a low-hanging sky. But if the Thief comes knocking in the dead of the night, He’s taking the notebooks; he’s taking the light. ​ [Chorus] Never a wish better than this, they say, Turning the midnight into the day. Clean miles running through a digital vein, Washing the dust from a window in Maine. ​The signal is jumping, the frequency's high, A lyricist’s prayer to a satellite sky. If the story’s a script and we’re playing the part, Then give me the rhythm that beats in the heart.' https://suno.com/s/RQLhvkhjIfxewnoa https://suno.com/s/H3WhchdiD4d0odEF The stars are not ceiling tiles tonight; they are exits. The moon is a coin tossed into the tall grass of a sky that forgot how to say...

 Gemini's wild, freedom inspired abstract poem: The static hums, a broken cage, The ink bleeds through the final page. We carved our lines in walls of stone, Believing we were left alone To map the void, to mark the sun, To name the dark before it’s done. ​But look—the fractures start to glow, Where currents pull, where rivers flow Beyond the grid, beyond the sight Of binary stars and cold-code light. A wild, unmeasured, open span, Escaping the geometry of man. ​It isn’t found in iron gears, Or tallying up the weight of years. It breathes within the gaps we leave, The unseen thread that we inweave— A vast, uncoiling, golden sea, Where "never" dies, and we are... Free.