If I sit tight, don't make a sound, there's bound to be someone that wants to disturb me, but here in the attic where the air bends the static and the light starts to flicker I kick around some ideas, formulating a panacea for all of my woes.
In the sharp cut of morning where the blood of the day starts flowing through the veins that are broken and the shops start to open and the sirens are wailing I think that I'm swimming in the lines that are flooding to drown my face in deep sorrow, each day it's tomorrow and tomorrow's not there.
If sitting tight means I'll make it then it'll make me or break me and the static will take me far from the heartache that stalks me through the long walks in the country where the fields are enclosed and it all looks the same to me.
There's a fog on the boundary, looks like some old dog that is hounding me, but imagination makes sounds which to me become pictures and the pictures like some things are frightening, static and lightning being two of them.