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