Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Run.

Solace in strange places, huh. Sitting in a back yard with a bride and groom made of the bones of a dead animal. Drinking XXXX of all things and, sure, why not, it's only fucking Pot, right, I could do with the out door, and let me hold it open for you, 'cause I reckon you need it too. So that's what we did, two blokes just sittin' and swapping stories of the bush and of the past until after midnight when it's time for me to go and I walk out into the night with a bag and a guitar and there's four streets but nowhere to go and it's too cold for the park and I need just one more night of peace, I need it 'cause there's nowhere to go and I'm so fucking tired, so fucking tired, so damn tired.

********

In the morning you rise with the sun and ghost out into the morning - just another piece of fog. That's all you are.
A fog which looked so beautiful in the moonlight.
A fog which will fade as soon as the sun rises to light the day.
A damp memory.

********

And out in the day you run.
With your arms open wide so you might catch any dream you can.

Run.

Run run run run run.

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