Missing Person's Report

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The Pablo Collective

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Talk about the beginning 
And the end of your vows 
Constellations tell you facts fucker 
Truth furrows your brow 
Talk about leaving silhouettes lying down in your wake 
Prepare for an all night party and keep everything you take 
Join the club, im the leader, take a seat, I'm your reader 
Lost your way, I'm your seeker, ride the newly sun, I'm your empathetic 
Speaker, out my headphones hear your voice but you ain't round 
Out of body ever present leaving all the players for your incandescence
A wholly automatic automated celebrated 
Totalitated connected and hydrated 
Fountain of everything, drink from the waters and receive nothing 
Tell me that there's ideas there, I need the mind of opening 
My faded logic erases the temple of sanctum in the wheat field 
My bleeding heart builds the wright construction of the unsealed 

Big bang for the finisher, bad words for the disher 
Only take a minute for the shit to hammer home in a world where our blood's counted in kilo bytes and Ohms 
Tell the man you're ready, tell the doctor you're steady 
They don't know that they're plotting an attack on the people that arrange narratives with thumbtacks 
I got the plague, do you want some? you loathe it but in the end you'll succumb 
The futures past the last corner are you ready for the battalion of progress retentive coroners? 
I don't understand it, we tried our best 
But to some consistency in ideas is what's worth a test 
Gratis events when the creator feels generous, and still gets fucked by the ones who exude malevolence 
The death of the author, the deaths of the artists 
Everybody's dying but the cash is rolling in to stop the writer from crying 

Blue and red, calling out the songs of the pure breds 
187 and a 11-44 at the place of residency of some guy in his 20s 
He was shot in the back sitting at his desk, with the chair on the ground and the fibers a speck 
Cops got there too late, he didn't leave a trace, the suspect gone nowhere and the man without a face 
Scattered around the room were his paintings and records the only thing that got untouched was his safe full Of more hoards of money, diamonds, checks for the bank 
A rolex watch, and the only thing stolen was the keys to his think tank 
On his desk was a computer filled with social media accounts each one of them relating to a steady follower Count 
He made music, released it to the public, they listened once and then proceeded to tell him to shove it 
You had your chance, now get the f*ck into your lane 
Stop fuckin around or we'll be forced to bring the pain 
He said okay, and did it again 
Next thing you know he's dead in the end 
Police left the place, and gave up the chase 
Left the body there to rot away and stink up the place 
A year later the custodian opens his door 
And a finds a small compact disc where his body was before

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