Text:
Kind Of Like Spitting Old Moon In The Arms Of The New

time. A painting of my days lived with restraint. I draw pictures, send birthday presents. Yes, I sleep alone, which is fine. But soon, I'll need you. I won't last like

Our savior's fallen ill, and he won't get up. We've cast away our stones. Why won't he get up? So unawake with you, you let me drive your car. You let

we hang the phone. But it's not like you're alone. A scene as awkward, but not really like an end. And it's not like we're just friends. So strange to really like

You're the same old bore I know that, no need to remind me I know from experience that nothing gold can stay Numbers one or two, it all hits the same

her roommates not to take your calls. The severed heads line the bed their names all burnt in the wall. It's just not cool to act like it's a big deal

and hollow eyes, Beckonin' like this -- young Hamlet cries, "Hold, spirit of darness, are you a ghostly apparition?" "No," says the ghost, "I look like