I've heard of fools who believe in a place like heaven where the paint dries itself and its warm and pleasant, I've heard of their books and how they pass on looks to those in need of gasoline at stations and believe their hands clean, frame their pictures and love everything. I've heard of those fools, and I've seen their forevers, on countertops, sleeping off the dust in the eye, forever thinking through forevers, with a presense.

and everyday they wipe themselves clean, and that's alright with me