ya know sometimes the perpetual motion of the city can grind you raw. the panhandling catchphrases, the 30 second subway love affairs, the women in front of macy's declaring "fur on your back blood on your hands" standing stoicly in thier earthtone outfits dragging on thier lipstick-stained cigarrettes and feeling nothing, and all i want to do is get home. somewhere right now a vcr whose audience has fallen into slumber stops, a huge parking lot stretches empty and silent as carridges loiter aimlessly, and though no one is driving this late the stoplights tend to thier duties, and Somewhere a loudspeaker in a vacant grocery story is playing the most wrenching lovesong ever written and no one can hear it.
what am i saying? who knows, certainly not me: i'm drunk. hey, fuck it.
what am i saying? who knows, certainly not me: i'm drunk. hey, fuck it.