Someone took in the pants. Somebody painted where they stood, and no one spent any time in the turning lane where I've seen things I can't remember. When the time passed, holding it tight, I tried to help them put it out. My hands took down and out all the things I've got; my hands got the blisters of the world.
If you can look up, I can blow it down to something a little less sacred. I can take it down, if that's where we're headed. Just don't expect.
If it hurts, let it. If you're crying, do it. All it takes is a little prick hanging over your wood covered floors, and if you turn, it can cause things that you wish you could forget become an ashtray you can't put a cigarette out over. If the morning light can make us look this bad, then what's going to happen when the moon comes out?
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