Everything is cool and gray. Just like a Leonard Cohen song while you sip tea. You're alone, and in some way you seem to like it. You're broken, like I was once. I seem to have pieced the puzzle and I know that it isn't this room, this life, why the watercolour weeps in the rain. In many ways I tried, in many ways I try, I'm chasing dragons, from one ring of smoke to another.
I know I don't fit in. But when was this about me. It's about you. Your dreams are glass. Your shadow is a curtain of doubt. And I know you will recover, like a morning after an evening storm. So sweet Persephone, take us to your underworld. It's one of these months, and then one of those. You will see the light, and I'll be back to live in my beer bottle.
My words smudged on the walls of a crumbling tower. And sweet memory and her petty calling -- what season could this be? I'm stuck in this very room with this one thought.
And I'm followed with another and then another. Remember the eyes I do not meet. Remember when we heard, or read, let us go there, when the evening spreads out against the sky.