Sitting in a square room. My voice is freezing. And the beams that are bouncing off the moon. Are hanging from my window like icicles. . Just a tired old alcoholic, waxing bucolic.
scratch, scratch, scratch. goes the cat on the carpet. she stepped in the blue water bowl. twitch, twitch, twitch goes my eyelid. my tounge in a cavity hole.
(Vic Chesnutt). sitting in a square room. my voice is freezing. and the beams that are bouncing off the moon. are hanging from my window like icicles.