I want a refund. I'm not content with, this life I was given or the choices that I've made with it. Can we start this over? Can we get our days back? The ones we forgot to drag this sack of shit out of bed. The bathroom is spinning, on the tile floor my bare feet feel cold.
So bless your bones.
My tongue is so sore, from talking so much. And never doing, just projecting a future.
When I've got the cash I eat like a king does, when we've got the time we indulge in our habits of shaping the world around ourselves and filtering out all the other shit.
These are my nimble, capable fingers. Idle they rest upon the neck of my guitar. We're getting so old. Oh, bless your bones. Bless your bones.