meetings - sixty stories lyrics
there is not much left here: a wet blanket, a plie of dirty clothes, and our awe struck sense of wonder and dissidence under the main street bridge. if you paint the letters in red, or black, or anything. i will crouch down, i’ll keep watch and i’ll pull us out of this mess that we’re in. this is more than i can take sometimes and the good is becoming less visable. the people we meet all look the same and i can’t tell were they end and i begin. it won’t stop raining to let us out. the trees sag low and the river is overflowing the path is wet and swallows every step i take. so if we’re stuck here lying let’s try to make the best of things. let’s be honest. “can we share this blanket? i can see my veins through my thin onion skin.”
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