hello, darkness, my old friend i’ve come to speak with you again because a vision softly creeping left its seeds while i was sleeping and the vision that was planted in my brain still remains within the sound of silence
She was a real royal lady, true patron of the arts. She said the best country singers die in the back of classic cars, so if I ever got too hungry for a suitcase or guitar, to think of them all alone in the dark. So I laid some nights beside her in a bed made for a queen. She said I kissed her different, that all the men her age were mean. Gave me anything I wanted, oh the generosity. I took all that I could, it was free. Now the sky is a torn up denim and the clouds are just splattered paint. It’s a room I’m renovating; it’s a name I got to change. If I get out of California I’m going back to my home state to tell them all that I made a mistake.
And I keep looking for that blindfold faith, lighting candles to a cynical saint. Who wants the last laugh at the fly trapped in the windowsill tape? You can go right out of your mind trying to escape from the panicked paradox of day to day. If you can’t understand something then it’s best to be afraid.