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The Number Twelve Looks Like You
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I'll Make My Own Hours
Ten thousand times I could tell you over,
How many times I would rip through walls and ticking a typing.
I wrote a library of books in that back closet.
Scraping at the walls, with my knees in a magazine.
Roll her on out just to slide her back in.
Unravelling rolls into their machinery and click away.
This was where you could embrace misery.
With enough energy you could talk yourself out of anything.
A mind in flight, full of addiction; a circulating masterpiece
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This glorious night, as I trip the horizon turns vertical.
I'd burn this place down if I had a match.
My nicotine hands are shaking.
A frantic voice is at the other side of the receiver.
'Won't you even tell me a portion of the problem?'
I grab a fist full of air and lunge at your face.
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