I'm singing for the love of it/Have mercy on the man who sings to be adored.
Around mile 20 I was feeling so good, I wanted to kiss everyone.
Mud and water and the stumps of trees. In every direction that was all there was. Bodies fell, but the trees died standing up.
I do think that there's art that is tortured, but I prefer art that has the joy in it.
Every heart is a package tangled up in knots someone else tied.
Its been a long time coming but now the snow is gone