Mary, this station is playing every sad song. I remember like we were alive. I heard it Sunday morn' from inside of these walls. In a prison cell, where we spent those nights. And they burnt up the diner where I always used to find her. Licking young boys blood from her claws. And I learned about the blues from this kitten I knew. Her hair was rabid and her heart was like a tomb. My heart's like a wound. I saw tail lights last night in a dream about my first wife. Everybody leaves and... read more
