We're cutting a line below the star-spangled dome, through the dry grasslands and the forested hills. The trail we leave is not always straight and the journey we make is haltering.
So who visited you in your childhood bed? -The old man in red or the woman with wings? Or perhaps other unearthly things. Or maybe the villains who arrived at night
I've been touching wood a lot because of recent vivid dreams watched that dead baby's body rot the world unravel at the seams London's waiting up ahead tapping at her watch
the boy who mouthed over your perculiar judges knows better than them of your faults and takes out his iron to flatten your creases to smooth your flaws the mismatched friendship
I can't feel pain the way you do, I guess it's not in my DNA. Neither's humour, isn't that true? Or what is it that you want me to say? And you're genetically predisposed