answers that never arrive
I sit by the window and listen to the raincome downand I think about why wedo these things
we sit with our elbows on thesebrick walls,talkingbickeringlamenting the passing of our youth,and what it means to beyoung.
we write letters to Santa Claustell him about howwe've been goodwe should get presentswaiting for answers that never arrive.
we spend our days and nightsdrinking screwingscreaming our heads offand all it ever really doesis make my stomachhurt