listening to: Another Morning Stoner - ...and you will know us by the trail of dead

Damn. God. Damn. Sunday. The day I damn myself. Biding my time to your alienation. The song is already over so don't fret or sweat beaded on your forehead. I'm going back to bed. How many coincidences can we bear before we run away? If you can see the wrong steps laid out before you like a grid, will you still dance? Rubbing my eyes and eyeing the covers.

dive under.

I'm not coming out either.

The anger of Paris is drowning out the accordion playing in the alley playing in my head. All I want is extremes when it's extremely clear I can't leave this chair. Age creeping into the middle of my back and I spilled the glass.

When can I give up?

Do you know the perfect C when you hear it?