till the ebers burn my fingertips

till the world spinns

till my vision is blurred

and my speach is slurred

andd i think its funny 

the cherry stayes sparked 

like the old legend says

someone must be thinking of me

im sick of these songs

and im sick of my name

and the lowlight in my room 

and the flannels littered with smoke of all sorts

and being awake

and being in pain

and im so so sick of sleeping for just a day

of these people

of this dust

hopelessly harmonizing

with 

fuck