eewoulfe

im living on a vertical face...always trying to scamper up a few holds. strumming some new chords into a dead box...like a dog scratching at the door. for all my past glories i cant find a heart to save my bones. the streets are emptied of artists. scraping knuckles and knees...ive got to climb out. only the rum pum pum of the battle march drum can raise the souls i seek.