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sick of it whatever it's called sick of the namesI dedicate every pore to what's here

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that stone Buddha deserves all the birdshit it getsI wave my skinny arms like a tall flower in the wind

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we're lost where the mind can't find usutterly lost

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Hearing a crow with no mouthCry in the deepDarkness of the night,I feel a longing forMy father before he was born.

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clouds very high looknot one word helped them get up there

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born born everything is always bornthinking about it try not to

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I'd love to give you somethingbut what would help?

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don't wait for the man standing in the snowto cut off his arm help him now

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it isn't that we're alone or not alonewhose voice do you want mine? yours?