[Unverified]. . This is no town for the friendly, everyone here has a story. And in this maze of people, I lose my sense of definition. A page ripped from a book, I'm just a page ripped from a book.
Trapped. A game of roulette. A marble and wheel. Revolver and steel. While down on his luck. A grimacing drunk. He spins on his axis. On top of the table.
Desperation takes to the streets. From out of the back of the house and into the streets. And you never know who you might meet. If he only plants one little seed.
On my relative blank memory. All photographs leave scars. Of your insect inspiration. In the ice forms on my windows. . My memories here are conjured up.
Lost in a paperback rain. Picking through books that you won't read again. Keeping your promises vague. Lost in the crowd in the circus parade. . Keeping your polaroids dry.
The surgeon was at the table with his hands on a rusty saw. The better angels of our nature were standing there in awe. The sculptor danced with his statue and caressing the flaws in the bronze.
Swell surging forwards. Eroding the land. A test of your patience. A test of your hands. . The presence of angels. A pall of thick smoke. On this table spill memories.
I was cross-eyed, stoned and painless. My pulse was up my eyes were red. My visions, situations, feelings. Hung on my lips and burned me up. And 18 hours spent asleep.