You cut and paste forgotten songs into the night.

There’s a whole summer buried in red leaves when they die.

These things go, they go, they go, they go, they go.

Fading reminders like old piss in the snow.

You've touched the night.

Now it sticks like glue

or tiny organisms that eat away at you.

If there’s something in me that feels like gravity,

fall down on me.

Bum cigarettes in parking lots saying

„This is the ending of

the first quarter of a broken century.“

I ain’t got much to show for it -

tangled words and well-aimed spit.

Here at the ending of a quarter of this century.

These things go, they go, they go, they go, they go.

There’s a place somewhere that’ll make you feel whole.

Hidden in this awful country. Let it come to you.

You've touched the night.

Now it sticks like glue

or tiny organisms that eat away at you.

If there’s something in me that feels like gravity,

fall down on me.

The sorrow touches you like waves.

Sometimes it barely reaches you

Sometimes it carries you away.