Mars Volta = Pink Floyd of the 21st century

Shredded wings of angels,
remorsefully fall to earth,
to cover the seeping filth,
that breeds insidious contempt.
Shredded wings of angels,
their sacrifice to provide,
a tangible sight of dreams lost,
if just but for a day.

Sometimes I like to lay naked in the snow, writhing around in it and making chirping sounds to the birds at the bird feeder, birds that in any other situation would fly away immediately but due to the snow they need to stay there and gather food, so they are essentially a captive audience of mine, like passengers on an airplane to an evangelical pilot who recently returned from a mission trip and wants to share his thoughts on life and redemption with his passengers, who in turn fear for their lives as they believe the pilot to be a religious fanatic with the belief the secular population need be taught a lesson by crashing his fully loaded plane into San Francisco, the symbolic city of all thats wrong with the world.

I like to wither around in the snow till I lose all sensation and then run inside into a hot tub of aromatic water, creating a feeling of my physical body falling into the earth, and my spiritual form rising up into a higher plane of existence, full of sweet, harmonious music that is edible by the mind and people of all shapes and sizes from the pro-bono lawyer in the shape of a 20 ft. Keebler elf cookie with the voice of a singing George Michaels to the bookkeeper the size of an atom but with the strength of Atlas, who quietly sneaks up underneath the sole of your right foot and unexpectedly propels you thousands of feet into the air, as you scream for your dear life wondering if this is really happening or if you're experiencing the delayed effects of that drop of acid you took in the morning with your cup of coffee, but then laugh giddily when you realize it was that li'l ol' rascal bookkeeper who did this, and then quickly rehearse the Prayer to the Almighty Bookkeeper* so that he selflessly catches you before you fall to your death.

*The Prayer to the Almighty Bookkeeper
Almighty Bookkeeper,
you rock my world,
you rock my socks off,
you rock the kasbah,
you rock all that is dear to me.
Almighty Bookkeeper,
You truly are the supreme rocker,
of all that is rockery.

Televators - Mars Volta