So hold your head up high and know. It's not the end of the road. Walk down this beaten path before. You pack your things and head home. . At the end of the road.
Good God, if your song leaves our lips. If your work leaves our hands. Then we will be wonders and vagabonds. They will stare and say how empty we are.
In the end we tend to think of how it. began. I could never explain the picture it painted,. and how it made me feel. Now the ceiling is in motion. The light centered and overlooked.
Someone has sown me shut. And tied me to a bed. They locked me up, locked me up. Oh, God!. This is where they all. Throw me to the wolves. Dragged behind and trampled on.