He's sick with all that he's seen so he stays in bed for 3 weeks
He doesn't miss his friends who spray art in the alleyways and get high from
Too much coffee
And mass hysteria
From his window he watches the endless streams of metal and gasoline
He writes down his dreams, both sleeping and waking
He hears two songs of sadness and softness and silence
Like an artist august descends down into his lonely den
He hides underground, deep in the realm of reverberant sound
Where music seeps through the walls
Where time is gone
August, has your reality started to melt like mine?