Red eyes fly away from here every night. My intentions aren't unfair or unkind. How else could I purge my heart of this pillowed dream?. Arctic wind will be washed from my hair.
I know it's there, burnin' to shine out. I know it's there, itchin', scratchin', just a shout. Buried, treasured safe. Waiting for perfect reason, perfect ways.
This pale Mucha postcard. Brings back orange carpet. We called roaches butterflies. And ate our pies at Birchwood Saloon. . Off the only road that leaves the state.