(no subject)
The windsheild is a gas mask, the smoke piled up all day. Jack hammers are living headaches, exhale and dream of excape. For some sky scraper needles, or heroin in the blood. Hipsters crashing on the evening leaving bottles in frozen mud. But it's a burn choking aisle, some cremating iron log, traped in the throws of industry, theres a restless mid western love. And you wonder how it got here, and why did it get so bad. Emptiness in allies, it never looked so sad. But death is a new beginning, and fear is just a fall, evaporated slowly, day break in the city.
GOOD SONG.