There's a trolley in the train that he speaks of in the morning. Soul is found in a shoe in the hallway. And the last tickets low priced. Cheap. He holds up his hands and forgets what he planned.
There's no story but one. Soon we should have forgotten our demands and then take a chance. And we turn and we turn. What a way to see the world. Can we just let it go by?
Since last week the stormy weather has got names that doesn't matter. I am calling out to rescue all the little ones grotesque.
There's a street or a lane that he dreamt of the other day. Some quiet day. A possible way. And the sour, sandy rain from the Englander is pale. Have felt the crown. It was an impossible frown.
Since last week the stormy weather has got names that doesn't matter. I am calling out to rescue all the little ones grotesque.