When the light throws at you arrows in the morning when the shadows try to catch your formless shifting as you move along the pavements, when you're searching for that someone who can search the sidewalks with you and you only find the nothing that's in empty cigarette packs, there's a big dog somewhere barking, over that wall, his name's rover 'cause there's no imagination written on the tag he's wearing and I am far beyond the caring whether this goes that or any way,
going home.

Pulling shades down on the daydreams, I spill out upon the sofa, flip the ring pull on another tin and maybe that's the answer that decides if it's a question, if I'm foolish in the following of archetypes and angels who shuffle through this room, pedestrians who want to be the E-type of their day.

If the night comes when it slows it opens up the fruits of sadness, which swallow me in little mouthfuls which only makes for bigger sorrows, there's a crack up on the ceiling amid the peeling paint and mildew it reminds me of a man I knew, a long time since I've seen him but the crack's been there forever, it's just a feeling that comes over me when daylight throws its arrows,
going home.