Keep on insisting on not existing. You're dressed in pastel blue, clinical white. Keys on the table. Cold on your pinkish temples. When you get trashed, are you still filled with spite? Cut up your face, then. Beauty's cost you pain. They wheel you through eight different flights. Vials of morphine. A gown stained with blood-red lillies. The needle stiffs your wrists up tight. Drift to sleep on oxygen. Mask-covered mouths of handsome men. Not concerned with suicide. I hope to wake up because this is a surgical romance. Clock on the wall skips. Cold hands, exposed chest. I look at you and you're still dressed in pastel blue and clinical white.
Track Name: AWOL
Maybe we could be together if two planes crossed each other. Maybe we could be together if two planes glanced at each other. Maybe we're touching each other as mountains touch the grassy fields or narrow roads cross golden hills. We descend upon the ground, with our legs wrapped around. Like lips meeting, like planes landing, like air rushing but only the sound of breathing.