Hello Becca, I think that I've met you somewhere along the Road to God Knows Where, along the digs of Mexico, and the desert of sound.
Down the ruins I hear the rain, in the stone, hitting the windows.
Now it seems like it is gone.
But the storm calmed the sea, and the cracks in the ships weren't mended.
Rain poured in my bedroom.
Rain took away my wife, drowned her with it's waves of envy and psicotic murders.
Just like in real life, the storms are only humans.
I think I saw you the other day.
In the corner of a hotel, begging for some holy poker card.
With a bottle of whisky and a whip for those you feel like making crawl.
Your shadow was wicked
So as your skin.
Oh son, she is your mother.
Oh friends, she is the work.
That art excluded to the depths of a shit bucket.
