And if it was just how you wanted
You'd be glued to his bones and his brainstem
And changing your image and attitudes
I sometimes miss Burgess Meredith up on the screen
leaning as he did with wry-ity
Just like jungle gyms and quarters spinning
he had that simple silver grin
like blank black photos we all thought never developed
People forget
People go on
The Sauchiehall hell we created is no different
much like a cat with no fangs and flat teeth
it makes much more sense through a window and rain
staring at the frames and finding the subtle touches
left of ourselves
It strikes me as odd how often things are completely different between one person and the next, just the way they see a color or feel a touch of wind. Is this, then, what lends itself to the charactre of a person, to their very nature of existence, because it seems more often that they never realise their perspective is so very individualised, complexed and complicated by the infinite myriad of circumstances and positions of everything else. Chaos to order, my dear, as always is the way with thought.
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