They tell me I'm dying, the white-coat boogie men.I close my eyes, letting their drip, drip, drip of consolation take me into revelry.The smell of crushed grass the morning we first made love. The field of wild spring flowers.The look...
They tell me I'm dying, the white-coat boogie men.I close my eyes, letting their drip, drip, drip of consolation take me into revelry.The smell of crushed grass the morning we first made love. The field of wild spring flowers.The look...