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The way that sunlight flits across your skirt,. makes me feel I'm from another world,. To touch your face in the morning light.. I hope you're always gonna be around..
This week's cash for last week's grass. Your crew collates while you sit in the van and wait. Gassed and trashed and smashed young cads. roasting away on a sunny summer day.
You can only talk so much about things that are never, ever going to happen. My brother's at home with his dog and his cat and his wife is at a friend's. You can only go on so long about feelings that never, ever actually touch you. No matter how much she told him "I love you," he found it would depend on the gifts that he bought her, or how badly she was hurt when the boss was cruel at work. But he'd just say "I love you," and he'd reach out to her. He was feeling like shit when I came to visit and walked through the door of his tiny apartment. We went for a walk through the park by the market so we could get some air. And I told to him all things intended to help him, especially that, simply because it was ending, that that didn't mean she was always pretending. Real happiness was there. I could see and I could tell: it was real love that they felt. And I'm sorry it didn't end well, but some things just don't - that's life, and you shouldn't blame yourself. And all of these things, well, I truly believe them. Our paths and our futures are hidden in mists that are stretching out over impossible distances, totally obscured. And I really do think that there's probably more good than anger or selfishness, sickness, or sadness would ever completely allow us to have in this life, I think I'm sure. But that doesn't mean it's bad. We were walking towards our dad, while getting out of that school bus, and he just said "I love you," and he reached out to us..
You'd better wear a dress that covers up that bruise.. How could I refuse your wish that I do that to you?. You'd better take your face from every cloud I see..
Abandoned by all her admirers. Wild White Shadow Waltz. Stands alone on a stair down the hall. Just one slip from a trip and a fall. . In a cold morning, holding her lighter.
We crashed through crazed glass in the white-hot burst of the fiery blast. We flared through choked air, in the deafening blare, in the scattering ash.
Through the wall in a soft spring rustle. Street-side selling some summer hustle. Across the Maple Street in a bristling fall. Just whistling all's a balled-up riddle.
I'm surrounded, each doorway covered. By at least twenty men. And they're going to take me, throw me in prison. I ain't coming back again. I ain't coming back again.
We need a myth. We need an amethyst bridge. We need a high hanging cliff. Jump, fall and lift. We can make it. . But we need a myth. We need a path through the mist.