"you see, when you were just a kid, they said you wouldn't remember what they did. they said, hell, you were just a kid. you wouldn't remember, but you did."
i didn't want to do it but they made me sing. you were a child, you were having the dreams. you were a child. you were unknown to me.
you were a child. you were grasping the secrets. i was a child, when i started giving it away. i gave it all away. by the time i was twenty-two i was shit-poor with eyes as heavy as pewter bullets.
it was a terrible scene, cynic. it would have suited you just. you could have sat in the rafters and watched the misuse of the steam, streaming juices let disastrously loose. caused some casualties. room for reform. recast as a virgin magnanimously torn.
you were swimming in a womb while i slept in a yellow room. you were playing in the sun when i started getting drunk. it was lots of fun back then. sweet thirteen thieving the brandy to dull the ache of the honesty.
i don't know how to explain it, cynic. it's not as if, it's not as if you care. i didn't want to sing, they made me do it. i gave it all away. if this will make them happy, this keep them at bay. this make them go, this make them stay. the good guys and the bad guys were just the same.
i wish i knew more, knew more, cynic. i wish i had a rafter seat, an unobstructed view, of the dreams and the sun and what happened to you, when
you were a child. you were grasping the secrets. i was a child. searching for scraps of love. you were eighteen, you were ready to leave. i was twenty, lulled to dreams by morphine.
and now, cynic, now look where we are. it's all some story now we can tell or we can swallow. we can turn it up or down but it never really leaves. is it in our blood? is it what lingers when we breathe?
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