i don't want to cause trouble, to disrupt that spinning cycle of perfection within which the world hangs. but here i am, and out we're flung from the gentle orbit. yet in the subliminal sub-orbital green grass terrain, among houses and street cars, tractors and trains, i get up and dress and go out each day. there's a picture, a face in the corner of my eye that i cannot blink out, that no great amount of tears can dislodge. one great timber.
i didnt mean to cause harm or scar any arms or cut the tunes from any man's throat. yet my wet lungs keep breathing and my wet lips keep reaching for the prize i imagine. for that sweetness i know waits behind your face. for the hum of the place.