Its winter in Los Angeles and my skin is never really warm.
I am covered in layers and layers until I look like some chicken burrito.
Lights from the television flash in through the half open bedroom door.
You are probably drinking gin and tonic again, strumming that gypsy guitar that your daddy left you.
I am trying to concentrate on millions of women giving birth and snake tattooed lips.

When did music start to have something to say?

I curl up like some hibernating animal and quiver with anticipation whenever I hear paper rustling.
the next song
asleep in your arms