i told my story to florence.

In our finest of furs
'twas one of the loneliest of days
bodies were decorated with
delicate slips
of lingerie-of lace

this will do it sir
this will numb it all
it might sting but it goes away
once again:
my potion to pain is-
refrain refrain

As we painted our faces
under the wintery sky
our mirrors would fog
and whisper to us
niet niet-this is not the time.

And our floorboards would shake
the china would fall
the saucers would crack
teacups would break

On how I have became certain
I told you-
we paint our eyes to the saddest of gray
and our lips,they stay the same
pale,November ships at bay.

We occupy our wrist
with the toughest of yarn
with the most fragile elements
each dedicated companions
baby notwist.

At night we go walking
searching for the villans
to our fairytale stories
by dawn we start singin'
a cry for a hero
just a jump into the deep end,is all

Im writting you a letter
im burning all my cards
im asking you to listen
im taking this quite hard.

The days grow quite lonley
when you got no sense of eastern time
and the western wall must be broken
with my thousands of prayers on paper
pills to the lord
smudged from the rain,
floatin by the northern train.


I told florence,only
She said i must be insane
shook her hand and told her
thank you,for my affirmend sense of shame.

Yes,i've walked by the post office
i've stood by that lake
I took out my ink pen
to bleed out this claim:

Im writting you a letter
im burning all my cards
im asking you to listen
im taking this quite hard.