The sweet small clumsy feet of april came into the ragged meadow of my soul.
An artist, a man, a failure, must proceed.
To destroy is always the first step in any creation.
Your head is a living forest full of songbirds.
Who knows if the moon's / a balloon, coming out of a keen city / in the sky - filled with pretty people?
The whole truth... sings only - and all lovers are the song.