When you were falling from my tree,
I was not scared.
I thought you'd
meet me back up there.
It never dawned on me
you were home free.
It never dawned on me, no.
The pallor might seem incidental, just a waning bit of sunlit green as the cab sweeps past. Incidental being the odd word amongst the varied and harried disarray of punitive fragments. We don't deal in this concrete infestation, invectification, no mob or mop, no syndicate or programming syndication. Ideas are a currency, a spun sugar web thoroughly manifesting itself as a plaster cast to mold to. There's that canvas flap that goes rigid in the wind, a snickering parasite in slate gray soup mix packet. The spare came off, the reality set in. A year wasn't much more than a winter dream brooding in the flame.
In such a way we form the soil, the highlight beams the sun seems to sag under our feet, crunching on the stilt-legs, cos heights are for fear, leave egos to their own.
Samuel is a good name, or so they may one day say, and Jack might be a better to that of Jennifer or jade or quartz. Not that the watch face is the final place the wretched seem to desire to etch. Defy time, or merely wave at it and shrug. A complimentary fashion to it I may admonish. All the while the girl next to you might be humming to the driver about the deer straight ahead in the road. But I'd all the same be more concerned of the sand in the glove box and her left earlobe being shorter than the right because what man drives himself mad about the details?
The price of all this vanity is getting way too high
The maintenance of my sanity is taking too much time
Simple feathers, falling feathers, 7000 reasons to dream.