chad-a-dolezalWhisper

American
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A life time wanderingA feeling, an ocean and a dream to describe: / It’s another mid afternoon morning and the sunlight billows through the windows and pierces my eyes; they fight for consciousness and after some struggle with my two-ton eyelids, I managed to pick myself up and stagger off to the shower. Twenty minutes later, cleaned and clothed, I make my way downstairs to see what faces still linger in the house from the night before. With each step from under my feet comes a cold shrill scream; the nails, with a century of twisting and turning wiggled themselves free. With the slightest exchange of pressure, the nails give way and plunge back into the body of the stair from which they had escaped. / It’s quiet downstairs. There’s not a sound; no voices of laughter echoing from the floors and off of the ceilings, not a sound of friends or strangers’ feet as they scramble to rustle up their clothes and belongings from the night prior. I had grown accustomed to hearing this in the morning and in all honestly, I’ve grown quite fond of the array of faces that had made camp here for the night. Usually this means front row seats to a race track where they all spin and run into one another to get started on their endless lists of routines and obligations. For the lucky few who get to vacation rather than push papers on the weekend, this meant a new companion and hopefully a day of company. Unfortunately, today the house is hallow, so empty it could make someone dream.
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Sight's no carpenterSight’s no carpenter’s hammer / No quick dry concrete / It’s flimsy and topples in the breeze
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Havana Hes Got SoulEvery time I hear you play this / I think that we're out walking, talk talking / Daydream talking like it's nothing
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A little bit of somethingI'm setting my alarm-clock / Earlier today / I've got class in the morning
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Les belles choses viennent de la plus triste des mainsSeamlessly savage / In a race to be victims / Drown out the morning
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Distance is a devilDistance is a devil, paved with ash and beat up promises / That pours too frequently from tears to misguided melodies and minors / I remember all those nights at the foot of my bed
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Flight 844 Seattle, Washington to Omaha, NebraskaWell I traded the grey scale pine tree scene / for a city less clean, with the same back drop screen / "The good life" so it seems
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Poor unexpecting calendar days.Morning's at my door / so I boarded up the windows / to hide in the dark light
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Dirt for AbrahamStand up / Better say your prayers / Better pack your gun
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Clouds passing, while time's laughingOutside, rustling feet and screaming / Kings of hills and peaking children / Hunting playmates like big game and now you’re it
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